Save State
by DemonFox38
Summary: It had been a year since the team was beaten and forcefully retired by Gray Mann. Wounds are mending, and average men are rising out of the shattered remains of the United States to reclaim their former jobs and teammates. What have they lost? What will they gain? Can forgotten bonds be repaired, or are they doomed to be destroyed once more? (Cover by PyBun.)
1. Chapter 1

**Save State**

* * *

It was a peculiar kind of silence. Not true silence, not a complete lack of sound. Something soft and dreadful. Like traffic on lone streets too far away, the soft beeps of a pulse monitor, hissing radio static. There should have been great sound—and at one time, there had been—but this dreadful quietness permeated the atmosphere. Only the soft clinking of machines in the cold hallways rose above the vacuum of noise.

A short man sat in a plain room, his left hand resting on the bare, metallic stump that was once his right forearm. His head was lowered in contemplation. Perhaps sorrow. Not prayer. Begging for mercy was beneath him. He was unarmed, outwitted, stripped of his teeth. In his core, he was still a fighter. Not that there was much point in fighting anymore. Not without the rest of his teammates.

Glowing eyes stared at him from outside the room. The short man growled at them, voice low and graveled. "Didn't yer maker program ya not to stare? Mighty rude."

His captors buzzed in unison. "The maker is good. All hail the maker!"

The little man clicked his tongue. It did no good to argue with Gray Mann's robots. They had a degree of artificial intelligence to them. Still, it was no greater than an ant's. Just enough to recognize their leader and defend him, to gather supplies and exterminate all other forms of life. He had spent a long year fighting them. The money had been good, and the company had been great, but—

Well, the stocky man was Texan. He knew this was his Alamo.

There was a scuffle in the cement hallway. The man lifted his head. Distinct robotic voices hummed and buzzed at the sight of their approaching master. The prisoner's stomach dropped. Proceeding that wrinkled sack of skin and bones was another clot of robots. A large one—modeled after the team's massive Russian—was carrying away the boneless body of his last teammate. Traits that endeared that body to the prisoner were hollow memories on the shoulder of a lifeless machine. Long, lean, relaxed. Limbs devoid of control swung without purpose, legs little better than fleshy drapes. Piercing eyes and sharp tongue were lost to the dark void. The spirit of the man the prisoner once knew was gone. Only the body remained, now a weak mockery of its missing will and fire.

The little man's hand held onto the left clasp of his overalls as his last friend was taken away.

He barely heard a human voice address him. "Mister Conagher."

The Engineer turned to see the sneering face of an elderly man at least three times his age. That old bastard's features were scrunched together, reassured and smug. He was still whole, suit pressed and hair slicked back. Only the faintest red splatter was on his right lapel. It had long since dried, not belonging to the gangly friend that had been taken away.

The thought to kill Gray Mann raged in the Engineer's head like an untamed dragon. The clever old man saw straight into his brain. "Come, now. Be reasonable."

Had he possessed his right, mechanical hand, the Engineer would have crushed the old man's head like an aged watermelon. The left one might have done the trick, but he didn't have the time to figure it out. Two sturdy robots reached out for his arms. They grabbed onto him, fingers folding and surrounding his forearms. Fighting was pointless. It had gotten him into this mess, and it wouldn't deliver him.

It hadn't saved the rest of his team.

"I think it's fair ta tell me what in tarnation yer gonna do to me," the Engineer grumbled.

Gray smirked, saying nothing helpful. "Come with me."

There wasn't really a choice in the matter. Mann's machines dragged the Engineer forward. The short man cast a glimpse over his shoulder, trying to see where the other robots had taken his last companion. It was in vain. They were long since gone, disappeared into the black bowels of Gray Mann's fortress. The snide scientist caught the Engineer's gaze and smirked. His smile only brought more anger into the Engineer's chest.

"Don't worry. I will make sure he's cared for," Gray said.

The Engineer blurted. "That was my job."

"No," the old man corrected. "Helping that man was your doctor's job. It was your hobby."

Gray hung on that word long enough for the Engineer try and lash out, as if he could snatch those words out of that old fart's teeth. His strength was nothing against well tempered steel. Gray smiled once more, then nodded his head forward. His robots responded with an energetic, "Yes, Master!"

The Engineer was dragged down half a dozen corridors. The only difference between them that he could tell was in the different shades of monotonous gray. Some slightly lighter, some darker, some sloppy and unevenly painted. It was oppressive. RED bases were warm and toned with wooden supports. BLU places were metallic, but rusted and calming. This place was void of personality, as inorganic as the stony mountains that jutted out of the base's peculiar island.

The old man brushed a door aside. The Engineer was quick to follow, if only because he was forced in by his captors. At first glance, the room seemed like some sort of hospital room. There was a gurney sitting in the center. Leather and steel braces were attached to the arms and base of the chair. The robots were all too eager to throw the Engineer onto the relaxed table. They snapped the restraints on him, then began clicking on monitors. As their master washed his hands, they flipped the Engineer upwards. All he could see was the cement ceiling and impossibly bright light fixtures.

"I suppose I should offer you a choice. After all, it would be a shame to lose a mind like yours," Gray called from a distant corner of the room. "We could be good partners, you and I."

The Engineer was blunt. "Go ta hell."

Gray sighed. "If only you would. Trust me. Death is preferable to what I am going to do to you."

The intimidation did little to deter the Engineer. He kept his large jaw snapped shut. Silence did little to coerce him. It had been his tormentor for several hours and had done little to pierce the steel shell of the Engineer's will. Had Gray not seen the Engineer's lingering gaze at his unconscious teammate, he would have wondered if the stubborn mule had any emotions other than anger.

"This is your last chance," Gray informed his captive. "Think about it. With your technical savvy and my knowledge in artificial intelligence—"

"Either do it or cram it," the Engineer growled. "I can't stand hearin' another word from your filthy, lyin' ol' mouth."

Silence leapt into the throats of both men. The Engineer was bright red with anger. Gray was pale as the undead, almost hurt by the Texan's refusal. Almost. It was no good to argue any further. They could yell at each other until they switched skin colors, and it would make no difference. The Engineer was standing by his fallen team, and Gray had business to do. It was just a shame he had to do it alone.

The old man huffed once more. "Such a waste."

"My thoughts exactly," the Engineer agreed.

He would never be able to fully recall the surgery. What fractured thoughts remained stung him like dead nettles. His mind imagined redness that wasn't ever there. His face felt torn and blasted outwards. Sinuses were ripped apart. His throat was scraped. Something cold and foreign was dropped within him, a tiny metallic pellet in a sea of scarlet flesh.

Perhaps the procedure had been more methodical. Maybe the most technical of the Mann brothers had a bit of surgical knowledge. The Engineer wouldn't know. Once that tiny device was put in him, installed like a chip, his memories exploded. Six years disappeared behind a painful wall of static. The neurons that held his thoughts were still there. The delicate webbing in his mind was intact. He hadn't been cut out of his own body.

He had been locked in it.

/***/

But, he had a dream. He'd had it nine times, in fact.

The man that had been the Engineer loathed it. Not that the dream was by any means a nightmare. It was ghastly and unsettling, sure, but it was mostly pleasant. He dreamed of a world he'd long left unvisited. There were warm, dry winds and an infinite, beautiful sky. Blue burned red, then faded to purple and black. Billions of bright stars arranged in front of his eyes. He would never figure out the constellations. They were just garbage, random processing in his brain as he slept.

He must have been sleeping on the top of some large vehicle. He could never look down or around him to see what it was, but it had to be some sort of van. It didn't do well to fidget in the dream. Looking up was always okay. If he glanced anywhere else, he would see the grotesque heap lying next to him. Even thinking about it made the man's neck turn just a little bit. He fought it, trying to quell his churning stomach. No. Thinking about it would—

"Dell," it said.

The man swallowed. It always tried to talk to him. At first, it had been cartoonishly monstrous. He thought it had been a prop for a bad film. It was some kind of yellowed skeleton, battered and scratched. Lately, it was unrotting. That was the best word he could think to describe it. Unrotting. He'd turn, and he'd see small organs blooming in its torso. Turn again, and red scraps of flesh were dripping from it. Every time, it had more detail. More flesh, but never complete. Like watching a zombie reconstruct itself.

He didn't want to look at it. Dell didn't want to know how the figure had built itself this time, what sort of fleshed puzzle was being completed.

"Knock it off," Dell grumbled.

"Please," it begged. "Dell…please…"

Dell raised his hands over his eyes. His right arm brushed past the peculiar body. He tried to calm himself. If he looked, the terror would only last a moment. He would be wide awake. Still, he couldn't bring himself to peep. The only thing he could take comfort in was the dryness of his arm. Nothing hot or wet stuck to it. No open flesh, no sewing wounds.

"I'm so sick of this," Dell sighed behind his fingers. "Quit tormentin' me. Go haunt someone else."

The voice rasped again. "Last time. I swear."

Promises from an imaginary man were meaningless. Dell groaned. What else was he going to do? He always had to see that half finished man before he could awaken. The script had to run once more. He closed his eyes, then slid his fingers down from his face. He took a deep breath. One more, and he steeled himself. On the third, he flipped onto his right side.

The corpse man was nearly whole.

His skin was sunburned, blemished and scarred, but free from injury. Hair grew in dark waves from new follicles. Bones were whole beneath imperfect skin. His ribs rose and fell in a slow tempo, organs kept in his torso with lean, smooth muscle. His jaw was attached, teeth all present, nose sealed shut. The only missing detail to him was his eyes. Dell stared at what passed for the incomplete man's eyes. It was a light as bright as the skies above his head, shining in a horizontal band of cyan and white.

"Be seein' ya soon," the unrotting man said.

/***/

"Dell! Get your lazy ass up!"

The sleeping man shot up. He banged his head into the guts of a truck. Dell rubbed at the sore spot on his temple, then took a look around him. He'd fallen asleep on a mechanic's creeper. Not exactly the first time, but his boss had caught him sleeping on the job. Sheepishly, Dell rolled out from beneath the vehicle.

His boss was a fat old man, much too round to get beneath the belly of a car. Not that the crass fellow didn't know his way around a vehicle, but he could only do so much with a keg on his guts. That's how Dell had ended up with this job. He was short, and what pudge he had didn't interfere with his work. Given the sour look on his employer's face, Dell wasn't sure if he was going to be keeping his job for much longer.

"Sorry, Bob," Dell apologized. "Rough night last night."

Bob snorted. "I bet." He scrunched up his nose, then spat a phlegm wad the size of a quarter onto the garage floor. "Struck out with Linda?"

Dell struggled to remember who he was talking about. He vaguely remembered some redhead with a pile of hair big enough to cover her head and his. "Oh. Her. Ended up goin' home early last night."

"Early? What kinda lily-livered boy are you?" Bob laughed. "Thought you were Texan. Any Texan I've ever known can hold his beer at least until two in the morning."

Dell's head swelled at the mention of his home state. It always did. Even hearing his own name felt jarring. It was like his mind was touching melting metal, information meant to be kept behind lock and key. He massaged his skull, trying not to let his boss's words get to him.

"Hangover?" Bob asked.

Dell shook his head. "No. Just one 'a my spells."

Bob frowned, his chins jiggling as his mouth moved. "Hell of a deal, Dell. You sure it's not—oh, shoot. I forgot. Diane's show's always got someone with it—amnesia?"

"It ain't that. Just…it's there, but it hurts ta think about it," Dell replied.

"Well, I'm sorry. Can't be easy going through life half remembering things." Bob struck Dell on the shoulder. "Just don't fall asleep on the job again."

Spared his livelihood, Dell smiled. "Thanks. 'N I'll try not ta let my little condition interfere any further."

"Good man," Bob replied. "Now, c'mon up. The lunch crowd's gone, and Diane needs to get rid of a cherry pie."

Dell's stomach twisted at the thought. Not that Diane wasn't a half-bad cook, but he couldn't stand the thought of food at the moment. Certainly not truck stop food. The rotting man was just at the back of his consciousness, his stare sharp and infinite. He thought of food passing through that man's mouth, how it would have fallen through months ago. Now what? What had the strange man meant? Who was he?

"Gonna check out on me again?" Bob asked.

Dell shook his head. "Sorry. I'll be out in a few minutes. I've gotta finish this up."

Bob grunted, then shrugged. He walked out of the garage with the same pace as a bloated rubber movie monster. "Don't be too long, boy. Free meals don't last long around here."

The former Texan nodded, then laid once more on his creeper. Short legs kicked him beneath the truck. He threw himself into his work. If he kept his hands busy, he didn't have to think about his losses or the threats from his mind. He was still himself, at least in his hands. Even that felt strange to think about.

He paused, then studied his hands. Both were red and pink from the blistering sun. He stared at his right hand, wondering why it seemed wrong. It was just a hand, right? Nothing more to it. As long as it worked, it would get him cash. If he could just keep storing it away, he'd be able to get himself sorted out. A few hundred dollars here got him a junker, a few more new parts, a little more fuel to roam…

He needed to get out of here. To go and find his faithful, haunting dream.

/***/

**Author's Note**

This is an old trope that I've wanted to turn on its head for a while now. Many people want to write the TF2 fanfic where the war ends, and the mercenaries we've come to enjoy ride off into the sunset. The retirement fic. Usually, the plot is "Respawn shuts down. Everyone dies except for maybe one pairing, or one pairing has a tragedy where one dies and one lives. Redmond's dead. Blutarch's dead. Also, Helen is a bitch and dies, too. Butt babies ever after."

I don't wanna do that. I want to go _**backwards**_.

So, this is probably going to be an emotionally wanky piece. Well, more so than I usually write, anyway. Probably a little more in check than "Rocks fall, and my beloved one dies beautifully", but I want to dig deeper than I usually go.

We'll see how I do.


	2. Chapter 2

Dustbowl was empty. Thunder Mountain was quiet. To the west, the Gravel Sea blew waves of endless debris across open fields. Pits and wells were long since abandoned, farms and stockyards barren. Badwater Basin was a hollow shell of its former bombastic self. Teufort was a barren husk, populated by hopeless people. Mann's Land was a diseased tumor, and its cancer was spreading throughout New Mexico. Most everyone had adapted to a regulated, mediocre life or simply given up.

And yet, the radio announcer had the gall to be chipper. "It's another lovely evening in the Fine Forty Nine! Sports news will be up shortly, but first—"

A slim hand slammed the radio silent. No. That was enough of that. No more waiting, no more pining. No more Fine Forty Nine. New Mexico hadn't seceded, nor had it been surrendered. It was just biding its time, hoping that the vengeful old Mann plaguing it would settle down and die. No, the woman knew better. That decrepit bastard would keep on rending the state apart if someone didn't stop him.

The dark-haired woman was hardly the person for such a task. She was nearing her middle age, her arms a little weaker and hips a smidge wider than she liked. Had she lived anywhere else, she would have been content to have a domestic existence. Just baking cookies and patching clothes. That damned man and his robots had taken even the simplest joy away from her. Her sons didn't know she was living here. Her baby was long gone. Her lover was lost. She had nothing.

Nothing, except for a ranch house and a shallow, empty existence.

The little mother paced about her kitchen. How could she possibly hope to go to war? She wasn't a fighter, not in the physical sense. Sure, she had been strong enough to birth eight children, but a womb as powerful as a cannon wasn't worth much. All she had to fuel her was sass and spunk. Even that ricocheted harmlessly off metallic robot brains.

She grumbled, then went to her living room. Trappings of a joyful life sat around. They weren't dusty or cobwebbed, but they felt equally neglected. A vinyl couch was worn down. On top of it was dozens of pillows and crocheted blankets. She had to do something to keep her busy. A built-in bookshelf was stacked with countless romance novels and an encyclopedia. All of their spines were broken. A TV sat in front of the window, untouched. In the corner of the living room was a cheap, wooden bar. Small green and amber bottles sat behind it.

She needed a drink. A warm one. Something as miserable as she felt. Grabbing a ridged glass, the lonely little mother poured herself an ample glass of bitter alcohol. She threw it back, swallowing it easily. Its burning was easy to tolerate in comparison to her loneliness. She placed the glass back down, then sighed.

"'m so selfish," she murmured. "There's still people here. Kid's still got friends in town. I'm not alone."

She choked on the last word. No. That was a lie. She wanted her baby, even if he struggled against her cuddling. She wanted her paramour, the mysterious Frenchman that came and went as he chose. She was alone, in every sense of the word. To be held, loved, cared for—she needed that reinforcement. A fire didn't burn without kindling.

In her misery, she placed her head on the bar. She knocked the bottle and glass aside. Both shattered at her feet. She growled. Of course. Not that food or alcohol was rationed, but she hated to make such a waste. The citizens of Teufort were still allowed to live their tiny lives. Gray didn't have any qualms with them, as long as they didn't threaten him. He certainly didn't have any use for them, outside of what meager resources they could generate. At best, he was a distant tyrant, content to let people do as they will. A few things weren't tolerated—traveling without clearing checkpoints, owning weapons, trespassing on his property. Those were freedoms most people were willing to give up, the cowardly lot.

The little mother went to clean up the mess. She crouched down, holes in her panty hose stretched. She gathered the mess in a towel, then threw it into a nearby bin. Another handful went in after that. She studied the floor, then the area around it. The mess hadn't been too bad. She was just fussing over nothing.

As she stood up, her hose ripped. She groaned. What had it got caught on this time? She bent down, picking nylon out of a thin line in the carpet. She ran her fingers along the gap. What was this? She pulled it up, surprised as it came loose. There was padding and floorboards beneath that. Crap building. Stranger yet, there were several boards that ended together. She dug her fingernails into that.

It came loose.

What she saw in the hidden door in the floor made her jaw drop. There was a little shoebox, one she had thought she had thrown away. It was clear that her lover had gotten to it. Buried in the box were the keys to her freedom—pocket watches, a cigarette case, a knife, a gun. A secret cache of weapons. It was just like that dirty Spy to leave little items like this about. He never knew when or where he was going to be in danger, and he had to protect himself.

Or, did he suspect—

The little mother grinned. It didn't matter what he had meant it for. Now, it was meant for her. A gift to save herself. She took the items up, playing with their contents. Her paramour had told her somewhat of what they did. She'd heard other stories from her son. Watches to turn invisible. A cigarette case for disguises. A knife and a gun? She knew how to use that. No bullets nearby, but she wasn't sweating that. He had to have another stockpile in her home, somewhere.

She tore the house apart. It didn't take her long to find the bullets—stashed in the ugliest pair of shoes she had. The ones she would never wear. The ones to match the shoebox in the floor. A mad fervor came upon her. She could get out. She could sneak past those checkpoints, weapons and all! She ripped off her ruined pantyhose, then grabbed a large suitcase and a purse. She couldn't take much—a few sets of clothing, comfortable shoes, toiletries, her weapons, money. A hip flask was as good of a water container as she would get. A few small boxes of cereal could fuel her. And, of course, a first aid kit. She had to have that.

The little woman locked up her house, then bolted to the garage. No patrolling robots to watch her. Good. She threw the garage door open. Tucked inside was a powder blue compact sedan. She smiled, then threw the front door open, dropping her purse in the passenger's seat. With a small purr, the vehicle came to life. She pulled out of her driveway. The garage door shut in her wake, leaving a small house truly empty and barren.

It felt so strange to drive with a purpose again. Most people were slowly rolling down the streets, careful not to attract any attention. She felt as if she were going to burst if she stayed still for much longer. She tapped her fingers on the metal steering wheel. It was a struggle to keep herself under control.

If it hadn't been for the last red light, she wouldn't have come up with a greater idea. It came to her as she sat next to a filthy apartment building. The complex would have made Pruitt–Igoe look like a lush hotel. Had she not been thinking about her son and her significant other, she would have passed it by. Now, sitting and waiting for a slow light, she schemed.

"I wonder if she's still there," the little mother pondered.

When the light turned green, she changed her mind. It was worth investigating. One clever brain could go so far. Two could double the distance. Maybe most people would have been deadweight, but not the girl in the apartment building. The mother took a hard right, then pulled into the apartment's driveway. She parked, then grabbed her purse. There was no way she was going to leave that behind.

Only one person lived on the second floor. The rest had panicked and fled at the first sign of robot invasion. Perhaps she was bound by duty or just crazy, but the last coworker of her son's was still here. She could see just the faintest light beneath a peeling purple door.

She knocked three times. There was a good, long pause before she heard footsteps approach from inside. At first, the mother thought the coworker wasn't going to answer the door. Three latches were thrown aside. There was a delay, and then the door creaked open. Behind it was another dark-haired woman, just as small, petite, and frayed as the little mother.

"You're—" the assistant said.

"Been a while, hasn't it?" the mother smiled. "Let me in. Got somethin' ta show ya."

The assistant hesitated. She gave the mother a quick glance, then allowed her inside. The mother nudged the front door shut behind her with her hips. The assistant raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. She threw the locks shut.

"Well?" the assistant asked.

The mother looked at the curtains. They were closed. "Does Gray got this place wired up?"

"No," the younger woman replied. "He sends out patrols every six hours to check on me. We should be okay for a little while."

"Poifect!" the mother exclaimed. She drew the short assistant to her side. Slipping one hand in her purse, she opened it. "Take a look at dis."

The assistant's eyes bulged behind crooked glasses. There, wrapped in spare socks, was a gun and a knife. Two watches were thrown on top of the heap. A cigarette case was tucked next to a billfold. She snatched the gun out, flipping it over and inspecting it. It was in perfect shape. She looked in the purse once more, finding a box of ammunition. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. It was as if someone had smuggled the world's largest diamond into her apartment.

Or the world's tiniest nuclear bomb.

"Where did you find this? I thought all weapons had been confiscated!" the assistant exclaimed. She struggled to bring her voice down to a whisper.

"Found it beneath my cocktail bar," the mother smirked.

The assistant rubbed her face. "For once, I'm glad that Spy was such a lech."

The mother flicked the assistant in the ear. "That's my man you're talkin' about, Miss P."

"Sorry, Misses—" Miss Pauling began. The mother interrupted her, raising one finger up.

"No full names, right? Just call me Ma," the Scout's mother said.

"Right. Okay. Ma," Miss Pauling echoed. It felt wrong to call anyone but her own mother that. She readjusted her glasses, then found her composure. "What are you thinking? I'm guessing this isn't a Fuller Brush sales pitch."

Ma shook her head. "I haven't had that old job in years." She smiled, then got down to business. "Look. I found two watches, a knife, and a gun. That's more than enough for one gal. I'm guessin' we can split it."

"And?" Miss Pauling asked.

"Well, get outta here, of course!" The Scout's mother grabbed Miss Pauling's hands. "Look. I ain't as strong as I used ta be. Ain't had ta kill near as many people as you. I need yer help. I've gotta find my son 'n my beau. Ya know? I can't stand not knowin' where they are!"

Miss Pauling put a hand on her head. "And then what?"

Ma stomped her foot. "Find the rest 'a them. Come back here and kick that old Mann's butt, that's what!"

"You're—" Miss Pauling wanted to call the little mother mad. She pursed her lips, then closed her eyes. Ma was right. If anyone could stand up against Gray Mann, it was the mercenaries that Redmond and Blutarch had hired so many years ago. The morons she had watched murder each other for half a decade. They were smart enough to fight efficiently, brave enough to fight to the point of death, and imprinted in a machine that would bring them back to life. They were the perfect idiots for such a job like this.

"Ain't got a better idea, do ya?" the Scout's mother interrupted Miss Pauling's thoughts.

"No," Miss Pauling confessed. "It's either we go find them, or we go after the other team."

"And they are where?" Ma asked.

Miss Pauling bobbed her head south. Her tongue caught on distasteful terms. "Gray's got them, too. Helen sent them to his… corporate headquarters. Haven't seen them since. Nor her."

"Not that old broad, too!" Ma said.

"I'm afraid so," Miss Pauling replied.

The Scout's mother cross her arms. "Well, that settles it. We've gotta kick his ass. And to do that, you've gotta help me. Whaddya say? It's gotta be better than rottin' in some dirty ol' apartment."

Miss Pauling pushed her glasses upright. "It's not dirty."

"Yeah, well. Ain't a penthouse suite, either," the Scout's mother grumbled.

The older woman was right. About the missing men, Miss Pauling's roughed-up apartment—everything. She could stay in position and wait for a phone call from the Administrator that was never going to come, or she could be proactive. The Scout's mother was certainly trying to spur her on. She'd come armed with a bag full of stolen tricks. The least Miss Pauling could do was try.

The assistant rushed towards her bedroom. She tossed a suitcase on her bed, then began prepping. The Scout's mother followed her inside. Between the two of them, they had Miss Pauling packed within five minutes.

Already, Miss Pauling's mind was back into battle mode. "Take two cigarettes out. We'll need to disguise as someone else. I know the Spy could change into robot disguises. That should work."

"Good call!" the Scout's mother beamed.

"Also—wrap the knife, the gun, and the silver watch in the gold watch," the assistant continued. She tossed a hairbrush into her suitcase as she spoke. "The one with the leather strap. If you keep that one still, it should be able to keep invisible indefinitely."

Ma smiled. "You are just full of smart ideas! Can I ask ya somethin' else?"

Miss Pauling nodded. "Certainly."

"Where did you find this cute bra?" the Scout's mother dangled a dainty purple undergarment from her pointer finger. Miss Pauling's face turned darker shades of pink as her elder continued talking. "I mean, I understand if ya don't wanna talk about it, but even a older gal like me likes ta feel pretty. Except I need a little more lift now-a-days. Ya know?"

"W-we need to focus on escaping, first," Miss Pauling managed to stammer. "Now I know where your son gets that attitude…"

The Scout's mother smirked, then tossed the bra inside Miss Pauling's baggage. "Aww. Next time ya catch him doing that, flick him in the ear. That'll stop him."

Next time. They had already agreed that there would be a next time. Perhaps that was cocky for them to believe, but it was better than leaving this town dragged down by the despair that had kept them prisoners. Miss Pauling snapped her suitcase shut, then nodded her head towards the front door. They were downstairs in less than sixty seconds. Miss Pauling took notice of the time. Six thirty. She'd have an hour and a half before Gray Mann's robots would come patrolling and looking for her.

They could be a long way away by then.

The two women jumped in the car. Miss Pauling placed her belongings in the back seat. She smiled to herself. There was no way they were going to fit nine grown men in the car. Certainly not if they found the Heavy. What would be like if they returned to Teufort? A proud fleet? A group of neutralized captives?

The Scout's mother raised her head. She opened the Spy's cigarette case and passed it to Miss Pauling. "Okay, honey. Make it work."

The assistant programmed two smaller robot disguises for them. It would be easier if they look like robotic copies of the Engineer and the Pyro, given their smaller statures. She withdrew the cigarettes and passed one to Ma. Both pressed the tip into the car's cigarette lighter, then took a drag. Miss Pauling placed the case back into Ma's purse, surprised to find the older woman had taken her advice about the gold watch. She looked back at the driver, finding the optical illusion had taken affect.

"Ready?" Ma asked, her voice masked with a mechanical warble.

Miss Pauling nodded. "Ready."

They were out of the town and cleared by dusk, destination unknown and fate uncertain.

/***/

**Author's Note**

Funny story. I had actually written a good part of this chapter detailing what had happened to the Sniper, then started work on this part. As it got large, I decided to table the Sniper stuff for later. Trust me, you'll get to see it.

I made this robot dystopian future way too chipper. Whoops. And technically, the Scout's mom shouldn't be drinking. Kids, don't drink and drive. Not even one drink. Just walk it off, or wait an hour per drink.

I am also trying to clean up how I write Bostonian accents. Before, I used to drop 'th's and add 'd's (that = dat, the = da). Hopefully, it's a little more legible while keeping the same vernacular.


	3. Chapter 3

Evil men spoke sweet words.

A huge man in a patched suit sat in quiet wonder, thinking about the dark hunter's statements. There was something frightening to the powerful actor. Perhaps, the audience member could see where he would fall victim to such kind words. "It is only the bold and the daring that achieve happiness." Yes, words for a fighter. For a warrior.

For a champion that the huge man had sealed within his massive husk.

The big man shifted in his seat. The opera house's seating was a touch too small for a man like him. Still, he tolerated their pain. He had spent the better part of a year scrimping and saving to be able to sit in this uncomfortable chair. He knew that he was intelligent, that he had learned many languages, words, and their gentle meanings. With no certificate or diploma to prove himself, and with his English rough and limited, he could only rely on his body for work. His spine still ached from countless hours of supporting steel beams and laying concrete.

Between the cost of the tickets, his pre-owned suit, and the alterations he had preformed, he was about drained of cash. He would have to work harder once he left this place. It would be another long week of labor ahead of him, eating from cheap hotdog stands and sleeping with no air conditioning running. But, this was worth it. It reminded him of something he'd forgotten.

He was a Russian who could understand German.

Someone nudged him in his side. The large man turned his head. There was a noisy, chatty grandmother seated to his right. It must have been the fifth time she had interrupted his thoughts, and it was only the first act of the opera. Still, she was one of few people who had treated him less like a human forklift and more like a person this past year. He enjoyed her company, to an extent.

"Am I in the way?" the big man murmured.

The little old lady shook her head. "No. Do you like that bass singer?"

The huge man nodded. "Good voice."

"The devil always sings well," the lady smiled. "You should have heard him last time, in 'Der Wildschütz.' Such a strong lead. It's a shame he's the villain this time."

" 'Der Wildschütz'? 'Der Freischütz'?" the large man chuckled. "Germans made many operas about shooting. Very funny to me."

"I suppose you like ballet more?" the noisy old lady asked.

The big man paused on the question. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a ballet performance. For the cultured Russian, he found this surprising. "Each has good parts. But, I do like singing."

The old woman was satisfied with his answer. She sat back, letting him focus on the show again. In a way, the massive Russian was disappointed with the show. The actors were all fine, but the lead character was so weak. A crybaby. Certainly, losing a contest was never a pleasant feeling. Still, there was an endearing quality to a graceful loser. The actor's attempts at pouting hardly won the big man over.

Currently, the main hero—who could barely be called that—and the charismatic villain were drinking and discussing the hero's misfortune. In the villain's hand was an antiquated rifle with a wide muzzle. Hardly the weapon for a modern fighter. The dark hunter passed it to the loser, and was urging him to shoot offstage at an unseen bird. A hawk? Perhaps an eagle. It seemed pathetic to the large man to shoot birds, even one as grand as a raptor.

The weak hero lifted the dark hunter's gun and aimed for the target. He pulled the trigger on the prop gun. There was an impressive white blast of smoke. A lumpy prop was thrown from off screen. It fell from a great height, trailing feathers as it dropped. It landed lifelessly at the simpering hero's feet. A weight just as great dropped in the large man's stomach.

It was supposed to be a hawk. Something great and mighty. Where other members of the audience saw brown and black, the massive man saw white. He watched the charismatic scoundrel approach the dead avian. He plucked a feather from it and placed it in the lame hero's hat. The big man's eyes stayed fixed on the prop bird.

Where others saw a dead raptor, he saw a dead dove.

/***/

He was happy.

For once in his life, no one was curious about the man. No one speculated where he had come from, what he looked like, or what his true gender was. He was simply allowed to be. People were glad to see him, smiling and waving. He had friends. He had a wonderful job. He even had a name-G.J. Gas Jockey. Nothing true or formal, but just as warm and affectionate.

He was so glad to have woken up here so long ago. Perhaps others would have looked for greater meaning in their existence, but he was just happy to serve a purpose. Every morning, the elderly would come to the gas station and stay to chat. Officers would stop by and purchase little sweet treats. Visitors would come and go so quickly through the station, but he was happy to send them on their way.

And dogs. There were so many happy, playful dogs in town.

Today was different, though. Honeymooners and vacationers were leaving the town en masse, ready to go back to work and face their jobs. Most of them were too busy or concerned to talk with G.J. But, that was okay. He wasn't one to hold people up. Besides, the skies over the nearby lake looked dark and foreboding. A storm was coming in. It was just as well that everyone got on their way and out of the rain and fog.

It was after tending to one of his regulars that G.J. encountered an unusual woman. He couldn't rightly tell if she was sick or not, but there was something off about her. She was a pale young woman. The only bit of color on her was her dark, almost black-brown hair. She walked with an uneven gait, pacing in front of the soda cooler. Her skin was clammy, eyes wide. Her lips were trembling.

"M'am? Can I help you?" G.J. asked.

She turned to look at the gas station attendant. He wasn't quite sure if the woman understood him. She walked towards the counter, staring at G.J. with confused, glassy eyes. The woman wasn't frightened of him, but she wasn't pleased to see him, either. G.J. tried not to take it personally. He wasn't conventionally attractive, and his appearance usually threw people off.

"Can I get you anything?" G.J. repeated.

"Gasoline," the woman finally said.

G.J. nodded. "Alright. Which pump did you use?"

The woman looked out the window. She worked her jaw, but didn't say much. G.J. was equally confused. There were no cars at the pumps. He turned back to her, then tipped his head. "Did you fill containers?"

She didn't understand him. "What? No. I need gasoline. Matches."

G.J. shook his head. "M'am, are you okay?"

"I need a knife," the woman said.

G.J. disagreed. "You look a little hot. Why don't you sit down?"

"Why aren't you burning up?!" the woman screamed at him.

Her sudden outburst shook G.J. He stepped back from the counter. She had to have been sick. Maybe on hallucinogens. It wasn't out of the ordinary to come across stoners and hopheads. G.J. didn't want to take any chances. This was why he had a security button installed in his shop, anyway. He slipped his finger under the service desk, then tapped on the emergency alert. With any luck, officers would be here shortly.

"You look thirsty. Can I get you a drink?" G.J. offered the strange woman.

"No," she replied. "No, no, no, no, no. Not cough syrup. It makes me drowsy."

G.J. sighed. What could be done about this woman? She was completely out of her mind. "Just sit down. Let me get you some water."

The woman shot him a dirty glare. "You called my mama, didn't you? You told her I was here! How dare you! She'll tell Daddy!"

"I didn't call anyone," G.J. fibbed. "Come on. I'm trying to help you."

She turned on him again. "Liar! You men are all liars! Cheats and thieves and murderers and perverts!" She reached across the counter, then grabbed G.J. by his suspenders. She threw him back into a glass counter full of cigarettes. "Get away from me, you monster!"

There was a jingle at the door. The woman stopped cold, gasping in shock. G.J. smiled. One of his regular customers had shown up. The man was a tall, strong figure in a crisp, white uniform. He had a rust-colored helmet attached to his head, always placed at just the right angle. He smiled from beneath, laid back and cheerful.

The officer greeted the gas station attendant. "Good morning, G.J."

"Good morning, Officer Delta," G.J. responded. He nodded his head towards the dark, sick woman. "Can you help her? I think she is feeling ill."

The disturbed young woman was frozen in terror. Any criminal would have feared the officer. For a woman as ill and misandrist as her, she was downright sickened by him. She screamed. The sound was harsh and hoarse. Both the officer and the gas jockey flinched. She tore out of the gas station, shoving the officer aside as she ran crying through darkening streets.

The officer seemed less angry and more saddened. "Poor girl."

"Are you going to go after her?" G.J. questioned.

"I think I'll have to call for back-up." Officer Delta put a hand on his helmet. "Did she hurt you?"

G.J. shook his head. "No. Not really. I'm more worried about her."

Officer Delta nodded in agreement. "The weather's getting worse outside. When that fog rolls in, we will have a harder time locating her. I'd hate to think how worse off she will be if she gets caught in the storm."

"Can I get you anything before you go?" G.J. asked. "Whatever you'd like. It's on the house, today."

That earned the gas station attendant a warm smile. "It's my duty to protect citizens like you. You don't have to reward me."

G.J. laughed. "Then, let me get it for you. As a friend."

Officer Delta sighed. G.J. was a hard man to argue with. He smiled again, then shook the attendant's hand. "Oh, if you insist. I could take a coffee for the road. Just promise me one thing."

"You've got it, Officer Delta. I'll call you right away if she shows up again," G.J. said.

The officer chuckled. "If we're friends, we should be on a first-name basis. From now on, please call me Adam."

G.J. beamed. "Alright. One cup of coffee coming up for my buddy Adam!"

Despite the oncoming rain and the crazy woman's attack, it was otherwise a perfect day. Still, the gas station attendant spent it deep in thought. What had that woman meant? What was she seeing? He stared long and hard at the cigarette cabinet, wondering if she saw something here. The red and gold labels shimmered in lightning and sunshine, but were dulled by the fog.

He leaned onto his elbows as something small and forgotten burned in the center of his mind.

/***/

A tall man wiped blood from his long face. Mud stuck to his body, squelching as he tried to sit up. His taupe uniform was stained with numerous fluids, too dark and wet to identify. There was laughter from nearby, the stench of smoke. Dead animals hung above his head, deer gutted, mink and foxes skinned. The park ranger's stomach sank. Poachers. That was whom he had been tracking. Dirty, rotten poachers.

They'd got him good. Hit him right across the face with the butt of a shotgun. He was lucky, all things considered. His lungs could have been punctured with punji sticks, or his ankle snapped clean off by bear traps. He propped himself onto his elbows. Mud plopped in thick droplets as he moved. He froze, hoping his captors hadn't heard the sound.

He was unlucky again.

"I think Ranger Rick woke up," one voice grunted.

Another laughed. "I thought we were calling him Ranger Smith."

That brought a massive roar from the first. The ranger's stomach sank as heavy boots stomped over to greet him. "Hey, there, Boo Boo! Look who's woken up! I don't think we did the job right!"

The ranger wasn't in any position to fight back. His nose was swollen, and his head was throbbing. That didn't stop him from retaliating. He pulled his knees up, then pushed himself upright against a tree. "Listen, lads. Think ya'd best be gettin' out of here before ya get into more trouble."

Thick digits pushed themselves into the ranger's abdomen. "Or else what? Gonna fight me?" The first poacher twisted his head, spittle landing in his beard and on the hapless ranger's face. "Ain't much to you, nature boy. I've seen hippies with more meat on them."

"Oh, don't antagonize him!" the second simpered in a sneering, wavering voice. "Look at that big scar on his face. He's a troublemaker, that one!"

The first poacher wasn't frightened. He pulled his left fist back, then rammed it into the torso of the ranger. The trapped man gasped. He couldn't get air back into his body. His attacker grabbed him by the neck, then pushed him upwards. Even with his long legs beneath him, the ranger could barely manage to keep standing. He fought against the strong hand around his neck, growling and gritting his teeth.

His stomach dropped again when the first poacher grumbled, "Get my knife."

If the ranger hadn't had good enough reason to fight before, he did now. His pulse raced as he saw the second poacher reach for the weapon. It wasn't something small or quick, like a table knife. Its blade was as long as a machete. The top edge of it was serrated. The whole of it was stained with animal viscera, from deer cut open and splayed around the forest, sacrifices for a hungry god. The second poacher brought it to the smoking campfire. Ash and flame rolled across. The ranger thrashed and kicked, fingers fighting to break the grip around his throat, but he was too weak.

The second poacher brought the hot knife to his partner. The first sneered, then drew the blade. "Who made this, hmm? Was he a big, bad, tough man? Did you stop him?" He licked his lips, saliva running down his tongue and teeth. "Did he do it like this?"

Slowly, accurately, the poacher dragged the heated blade across the ranger's old scar. It sliced the tip of the man's nose, his left cheek, his ear. The ranger couldn't so much as tremble. Bright, searing pain burned through his head. The rest of his body felt cold and pale in comparison. His jaw dropped, slack with shock. Water beaded on the edge of his eyes. He could smell his own flesh cooking as the knife pulled away from his face.

In that moment, there was a hot ball burning in the back of his throat. He thought it was vomit. As he coughed and heaved, the first poacher dropped him. He wretched. His bile was watery, weak. In its contents were the remnants of a small metal ball. The ranger stared at it, mortified and aching.

"The hell is that?" the first poacher asked. "Did you eat a bullet?"

"Maybe he wants another," the second laughed.

The ranger's shaking stopped. In the puddle of bile and metal, he saw his reflection. He raised his head, then saw it again in the hunter's knife. He saw a face he couldn't bear to see. One of weakness, shame, submission. A coward. He saw the mark of his failures past and present, and his body grew heavy. The sneers of ghosts. The old, stern gaze of his father. The scared faces of eight men he'd long forgotten.

"I think he's in shock," the second poacher grumbled.

The first smirked again. "They probably never taught him how to handle this in the Boy Scouts."

His friend sighed, now more irritated than amused. "Well, you know what my daddy always said. Don't let an injured animal suffer."

"Right," the first agreed, then drew the knife erect. "No suffering."

The poacher slammed the ranger against a nearby oak. He sneered, watching the ranger's bleeding face twist in anger. His expression dropped when he saw his mistake. At the last moment, the ranger had caught his fist and drew the knife to his right side. The heated blade sank into the oak's bark instead of his soft flesh. It steamed as the blade touched wet wood. The poacher looked like he was about to boil over.

The ranger's eyes had gone ice cold. "Standards."

"What?" the first hissed.

Pinned against that tree, beaten and humiliated, the ranger's brain began to mend. Mantras ran through the desperate man's head. Be polite. Of course. Be efficient. No problem. Have a plan. He was lacking that, but it was coming together swiftly. The knife that had skimmed his ribs was good enough. The poacher glaring at him was ferocious, but nervous. He had every right to be. He was fat, thick, and easily outclassed.

The man knocked his head against the first poacher's skull. There was a sharp crack. The poacher backed off, dazed by the blow. His confusion gave the trim man enough time to pull the knife from the tree. Like a wild savage, bloodlust boiling in his veins, the man leapt forward. Neither fat nor bone protected the poacher from his burning knife piercing his soft, weak heart.

"You—son of a—goddamned—" the second poacher swore without logic. The fierce, reawakened man turned to face the second, eyes penetrating and freezing as he tore the knife loose from the dead poacher. The poacher reached for his gun. His fingers fumbled on his gun, a mighty shotgun now nothing more than clattering metal.

The tormented man glared through the remaining poacher's skull. He could see every individual part of the man's brain, as if he'd memorized the contents of his antagonist's head. Cerebellum sitting high. Pituitary in the middle. An apricot beneath. Juicy. Ripe. Pulpy. As the attacker cocked his shotgun, the enraged man threw the knife. The blade struck true. Terrible smells surrounded the last man—smoke, fire, bile, dead animals, dead humans. Hitting the target brought the scent of tart fruit, his own brain misfiring as he remembered training given to him so long ago.

A cold, emotionless man. That is who he thought he was. Now, alone in a forest, surrounded by dead meat and men, the Sniper reawakened to the truth of his esteemed, ruthless title and to the horror of what had happened to him. Now, more than ever, he was aware of the painful lie of his nature. A cold, lone killer? No. A confused, weak, team-less man in a labyrinthine forest, hot and stuffed painfully full with nauseating emotions.

He threw up again.

/***/

**Author's Note**

At least two parts of this chapter were considered for publication in different parts. Oh, well!

…yeah, you can probably guess where I heard of the aforementioned opera. And, if your gut feels like you know what's going on in the second chunk, you're probably right about that. I could be more coy, I suppose, but it's fun to tease ideas.

Incidentally, if you do want to watch 'Der Freischütz', there is a full version of it on YouTube. Just make sure to grab yourself a German translation so you can fully enjoy an opera about magic, satanic bullets. Because if you have to watch an opera, you might as well watch a crazy-ass one.

It's good to get a little culture, every once in a while.


	4. Chapter 4

"We're nuts. You know that, right?"

The older woman at the wheel laughed. "Of course we are."

Miss Pauling pulled her glasses away from her face. She was cleaning them for the fourth time in six hours. Sure, they had made it past the checkpoint north of Teufort. They had gone out of New Mexico, onto the very bottom of Colorado. Even this far out, she was worried. Gray Mann would have found out about her escape by now. He always had patrols watching her. Now, with the little woman vanished, what would he do?

"Hey, Miss P. Are you okay?" the Scout's mother asked.

"A little worried, I suppose," she admitted.

Ma smiled. "Ain't nothin' to sweat. That old bastard's gonna have to search a long time for us in town. Might take him a little bit. So, we've got enough time to figure out where to go."

The younger of the two leaned forward. That was the next problem. When the first team had vanished, she tracked them every night. There were even attempts to follow them to their coordinates. No matter where Helen had sent the other team, it was much too late. There was always a troop waiting to intercept the remaining mercenaries. When their signals left New Mexico altogether, Helen called off the hunt for the missing men.

That decision frustrated Miss Pauling to no end. But, what else could have been done? Robots were kicking in the doors of each and every base. Gray was taking back his family's property, one chunk of land at a time. Sure, the remaining boys could hold a fort for maybe one, two months. It was a fruitless effort. No army could stop the tide. Flesh always fell to machine.

In the end, she couldn't even keep her boss from falling. She failed at the very basic rule of her job—to serve the Administrator. Not that the old bat needed a shield, but she could always use a second pair of eyes. Tough as she was, she was still human. Vengeful, fiery, venomous, but human. She wished Helen had listened to her. She had hoped that somehow, someday, Mann Co. and their president would have gotten their heads out of their asses and helped out.

There were always markets outside of New Mexico, though. And, there was only one man in that company that would have fought. Even he would have been nothing against the thrashing machines. He was not a demigod, much as he may have thought otherwise.

So, there was nothing left. No warriors, no land, no reason to fight.

Miss Pauling rubbed her eyes. "Sorry. I'm…" She took a deep breath, then let toxic air out. "I could use a restroom break."

"Me too," the Scout's mother agreed.

They didn't stop for long. The poor sedan was just about drained of gasoline, so it was filled first. Both women stepped inside a small gas station. It had terrible plumbing. They knew this before they even went to the restroom. The whole of the little shop reeked of stale, ill-treated water and mold. The coffee machines were shut off for the evening. Not that either lady was itching that much for the shop's coffee—it was probably little better than black tar, if the water situation was any indication. The duo grabbed a few starchy items, a map, some water, and a bottle of diet soda. They had paid and were out the door before their clothes could take on that dreadful stench.

The Scout's mother reached for the cola as she sat down in the driver's position. "So, here's what I'm thinking. You close your eyes for a bit, and I'll keep driving."

"Where are you going to go?" Miss Pauling asked.

Both women's minds blanked. That was a question they hadn't fully formed an answer to. The thrill of escaping vanished. In its shift came dull, droning doubt. Where were they going to start? Were they just going to sweep through each state, one town at a time, and hope they got lucky? They didn't have the time or resources for that.

The Scout's mother sat upright. "Crap. I thought you would know."

"There was a time when I used to monitor the—computer systems," Miss Pauling caught herself before she said too much.

The Scout's mother nodded. "Right. That respawn junk, right?"

Miss Pauling lifted an eyebrow, "I'm surprised you know about that."

"Well, my man could keep a secret," the Scout's mother smiled. "Not so much my kid, though."

"…like I was saying before," Miss Pauling tried to get them back on track. "I used to write their coordinates down. The last time I was allowed into the system was a few months ago. After our last mission failed, I wasn't allowed near a computer again. I doubt my credentials would still be valid, anyway."

"Do you still have them?" the older woman asked.

Miss Pauling nodded. She cracked open her suitcase, then fished out a folded piece of blue-lined paper. Faded, smeared notes were jotted down on the page. Ma just about snatched the paper out of Miss Pauling's hands. She read the coordinates, her face bright.

"Well, I hope you know how to read them," the Scout's mother laughed.

"Of course," Miss Pauling replied. She started at the top of the list, then dragged her finger down. "Rural South Dakota. Northern Wyoming. This one was in a small town in Pennsylvania. New York City."

The Scout's mother was about to jump out of her seat in excitement. "My son?"

Miss Pauling's finger traced down to his coordinates. "Orlando. And before you ask—New Orleans."

"That makes sense," Ma laughed. "Where else could ya hide a Frenchie?"

"If you wanted my opinion, though, you'd go here," Miss Pauling tapped on a coordinate in the middle of her notes. "It's the closest to us."

"And that is?" the Scout's mother asked.

Miss Pauling replied, "Southern California."

There was a screech as the older woman swerved out of her parking spot. Miss Pauling barely had enough time to catch the open drinks in the car before the Scout's mother rocketed onto the interstate. She was hardly a stunt driver, but she whipped the vehicle around with amazing confidence. Years of being the only driver in her family had trained her well.

"Didn't have to tell you twice," Miss Pauling huffed.

"Yeah, well. Sooner I do this, the sooner I get my boys," the Scout's mother smirked. "And trust me—It's killin' me to go the wrong way."

/***/

Sniper Mundy could kill whoever he pleased. Ranger Mundy could not.

The torn man sat in a barren room, fingers laced and head lowered. No one had to find the poachers dead in the forest. Especially if he would have buried them deep enough. He couldn't run away. He was a different person here. If he disappeared, they would always wonder what happened to him. If they found the bodies, he would have been hunted and skinned.

Miseries greater than facing long, hard years worth of jail time dug into his tired eyes. His brain hurt. It flickered in and out, trying to fetch little memories. A birthday party. The smile of a man he'd long forgotten. His parents. His parents! God, he hadn't called them in a year! Did they think he was dead? Even in the maw of the Sahara, he always found a phone. How could have he forgotten them?

He was about to slide off his chair and onto his knees when two cops came into the interrogation room. He collected himself with what little dignity he had left. It all seemed so funny now. Green-thumbed Mundy. Mundy, friend to the animals. Mundy, the neglectful, piss-throwing assassin with the smart mouth. Who the hell was he, anymore?

"Sorry," the Sniper apologized. "Bit bushed."

The first of the cops nodded. He sniffed once, his large nose and puffy moustache wriggling. "You look it."

The Sniper bowed his head. "I…I assume…"

"No," the first replied. "We're not pressing charges."

Energy shot through the Sniper. He banged his knees against the table as he just about jumped out of his chair. "What?"

There was a growl from behind the first cop. It was a short woman, with large sunglasses and a clean ponytail. "We found your fingerprints on the knife. The cause of death was as you said—your doing. However…" She scrunched her face up, like something ragged was caught in her throat. "Your injuries, the placement of the shotgun next to the second corpse, and your overall demeanor give my partner reason to believe that you acted in self defense."

The Sniper's fingers trailed absent-mindedly to his face. The stroke of silk gloves and a sharp blade was a memory that was quick to leap to mind. His gut churned. "I…I should have…"

"What's done is done," the first cop boomed. He clapped a hand on the Sniper's shoulder. "You are a ranger, and you saw trespassers in a national park. You approached them, they harmed you, you fought back to save yourself."

"You're free to go," the second cop stated. She bobbed her head towards the door. "Get out, before we change our minds."

A chill bristled the hairs on the Sniper's back. He didn't need a second warning. He shook the hand of the first cop, who gladly took his gesture. The second cop wasn't nearly as touchy-feely. He lowered his gaze and escaped before she could turn him into stone. He grabbed what little provisions were taken from him. As he strolled out, he expected to find his green Range Rover sitting in the parking lot. He was disappointed to find a brown box of an Oldsmobile Cutlass.

Driving to his hole in the wall was disorienting. His mind wandered in the gray rain. His guts were clamping up, his face burning. Yes, he'd had a wonderful van. He had slept and ate and lived in it. On stormy days, when the winds buffeted his vehicle like a tin can, he'd pull into a massive garage. There were people inside. Big smiles, friendly faces, good food. A beaten-up leather couch in a work room. He would sleep there, in that peaceful little slice of the desert, listening to the gentle scratching of a graphite pencil. Warm and cozy.

Weak, but happy.

He stepped into his ratty apartment with heavy feet. Rubbing a hand across his long face, he took stock of his little life. What had he done with himself? There were organized heaps of books piled next to a beaten loveseat, back issues of men's magazines left untouched. A black telephone sat on one mound, coiled within its wires like a weary snake. A ratty twelve-inch TV with rabbit ears was parked in front of it. He'd hardly turned the damn thing on. Clothes were folded and put away, sparse but well laundered. His bed was a mattress in the corner of the back room. No bed frame. Just a pillow and a blanket. Food was all but gone from the fridge and cupboards. Plain white plates and simple silverware were polished and cleaned. Here he was, standing in a perfectly clean, but Spartan home.

Ranger Mundy's home. And yet, Sniper Mundy had come through enough to ruin that. He didn't even give himself a decent hobby.

The Sniper flopped onto the loveseat. He sat with his arms folded, legs crossed at the ankle. What was he supposed to do now? Glancing over his shoulder, he gave the phone a cold stare. It had been sitting there, all this time, and he hadn't thought once of calling his parents. Why? Didn't he love them? Well, at least his mother?

He snatched the phone off the cradle, like a cat by the back of its neck. Pounding digits into the device, he tried to hold back a frown. One call. He owed them a call. He wrapped the cord around his right arm, flopping back as he listened to the tone drone on, hollow and cold.

There was a click, then a snap. "Who the bloody hell is this?"

"Dad?" the Sniper gasped.

The line went silent. The Sniper drew his legs up. He could imagine his old man at the phone, flesh bubbling to a bright red. A dread spread through his limbs, the same cold terror that he got when his father used to reach for his belt. He loathed the oncoming crack.

His old man was eerie, quiet. "Where in the hell have you been?"

The Sniper's fingers fumbled around the receiver, his well-honed dexterity gone in the presence of his father's voice. "I…I'm in Wyoming. Dad, I…I don't know how I got here."

"Son of a bitch. Give me a second." There was a rustling and a snap of paper on the other end of the line. The Sniper found himself smiling. The old man had kept his map of the United States. "Wyoming. Alroight. Blazes, that's a bit north for you."

"Somethin' awful happened to me," the Sniper murmured.

"Oh, what a big surprise! Ya went off to kill people, and somethin' bad happened!" his old man grumbled.

The Sniper sank into the loveseat. He felt as if he'd had this argument a thousand times before. Now, he was unable to defend himself. "Dad. I don't know what happened to anyone. They're…I don't know."

"I wouldn't cry over it, if I were you." The old man was on a rant. "They all deserved this. Bunch of mass-murdering maniacs."

The words felt like a cold slap to his face. His stomach and heart clenched. He could barely speak. "Did I?"

Now, his father hushed up. There was a long, dreadful static on the line. A low sigh rattled the phone, and the old man began speaking again. "No. Of course not." He drew another long breath, then continued. "Son. Your mother…ya worried her sick."

"Put her on the line," the Sniper begged.

"I can't," the old man replied.

A thousand terrible thoughts raced through the Sniper's head. She was dead. She died, and he broke her heart. He mashed his left hand against his scarred face. How could he? Even a brat as insensitive as him loved his mother. How could he do that to her?

The Sniper's voice cracked. "Dad, I'm so—"

"Don't be daft," his father growled. "She's already in bed. I'll tell her ya called."

A laugh escaped the Sniper. "Oh, thank God. I thought she'd—"

"Yeah, well. She could have, you ass," his father sassed back.

The Sniper lowered his head. His dad was right. About his job, about his mother. Here he was, languishing in a prison of his own making, and he had no one to blame but himself. He could have crawled into a hole and buried himself in his own shame. He felt as if he was cut in half.

"I won't go this long again. I promise," the Sniper swore.

"Good, ya bastard," the old man repeated. "You can treat me like sheep shit long as ya please, but don't ya dare hurt her again."

Bringing himself upward again, the Sniper tried to collect his thoughts. "Dad. I…I don't know what to do."

His father gave another small grunt. "Son, when in the hell have ya ever taken advice on what I want ya to do with your life?"

That brought a dark chuckle from the Sniper. Even now, when his dad deserved to shove him face-first in his own mess, he was pulling punches. He nestled into the loveseat's armrest. "I'm serious. I was this…well, this park ranger. And it was good for a while, roight? But, Dad. There were these poachers, and I—"

"No, let me guess. You horribly butchered them," his father interrupted.

The Sniper's face scrunched up. "Well, ya didn't have to put it like that. But, yeah. They attacked me, 'n I fought back. Got scratched up 'n sick. That's when I remembered everythin'—'bout you. Mom. My job. My mates. I lost them all, Dad. 'N that scares the hell outta me."

"Roightly so," his father agreed. There was a shifting on the other end of the phone, and his dad grunted. "So, you gonna get this bastard that did this to you, or not?"

Another shiver froze the Sniper. He remembered the sneer of a square-faced geezer, the burning of electronics. Being beaten and drugged. Carried away. Even the faintest, haziest memory of that was coming back. Being so sick that he couldn't see straight, so weak he couldn't move. His gut sank again. His teammates…one of them had seen him like that, just a pale, lean shadow of himself. He'd heard them all being taken away, screaming and fighting, all cast aside like refuse. The memory flowed like glacier ice through his bloodstream.

"I don't know if I can," the Sniper answered his father.

His father echoed the same low laugh that he possessed. "You'll figure out a plan for that. Proper murderer you are, and all."

The Sniper let air hiss through his teeth. "For the thousandth time, Dad, I'm—"

"Son, I saw your mother drop ya onto this bloody planet in the back of a barn," the Sniper's dad retorted. "I damn well know what ya are. Tough, that's what. More than I'd like, frankly."

"…I thought you'd ask me to come home," the Sniper confessed.

His father sighed. "Son, I wanted that for you more than anythin'. Or, at least for ya to settle down with a good gal 'n have a bastard of your own. But, let's face it. You weren't interested in it in your twenties, and you weren't in your thirties. Ya just aren't domestic." There was another rustle, and the old man cracked up again. "Besides. I've got a perfectly good thing goin' with your mum, ya know? Just us, 'n the farm. The animals, the dog, the tellie. It's noice. 'N knowin' you, you'd foight me over the damned remote every bloomin' chance you got."

The Sniper cackled. "I haven't watch TV in weeks, Dad."

"Even worse! You'd probably have us out hikin' in the fields, huntin' for mutant kangaroos!" his father replied.

The two men laughed, as if a year of silence and decades of fighting hadn't happened at all. The Sniper rubbed the side of his face. The corners of his eyes were damp. They spilled down his sore cheek, salt burning sensitive wounds. God, it was true. He was an ass, and he'd left his family behind. He'd almost lost them completely.

The Sniper sighed. "Tell Mum I love her."

The old man grunted. That was how they said this. There were never audible sentiments to each other. It wasn't the kind of thing stoic, polite men said. It was much easier to talk about women and how dear they were. "I love her, too."

"Get some rest, Dad," the Sniper said.

"You too, Son," his father replied.

They hung up together.

The Sniper flopped onto his back. He felt like painful metal was boiling in his chest. No. No time to sleep. He could rest when he was a thousand miles south. Throwing his legs off the couch, the Sniper scurried around his apartment. He had little to take—clothes, soaps, combs, a knife. Not even a rifle. He hadn't been able to touch him, all this time. Like if that terrible ball that had been in him had repelled it. That could be fixed. There were gunstores, cheap and shady. All he had to do was visit one.

His home for the last year was gutted and abandoned in ten minutes.

/***/

**Author's Note**

I had intended to get to what the Demoman was up to this chapter, but the Sniper bit ran long. Oh, well. Like it always goes, I'll get to it next chapter.

I should get a lot of crap for how I write the Sniper's father. Then again, all I know about the guy is half a phone call conversation, a post card, and a photograph. Though, technically, that's more than I know about the Scout's mom. Long as the liberties are believable, I suppose.

See you next time, hippie!


	5. Chapter 5

He found the crazy woman just outside of town.

She was more beautiful than G.J. remembered. White, brilliant, energetic. That's how she burned. Hotter than desert winds, brighter than stars. What was left of her haggard corpse was small, curled into a black heap. G.J. could barely look at the body. All he saw was the fire that leapt from her. It danced, unmoved by the storm and the winds, lively and ethereal. Healthy flames.

He sat down next to her corpse, watching as she continued burning. He would have called the cops, had he not heard the sirens coming. It was horrible, wasn't it? At least, that's what a sane person would have thought. The humble gas station attendant was awestruck. Rainbow streams ran from her corpse. Unlit gasoline. How did that not catch fire? How was she still burning?

The white-hot blaze bowed and swayed. Just a simple dance in the fog. G.J. reached out to it. His eyes stayed focused on the flames as his hand went straight through them. He felt no pain. Odd. That wasn't right. He drew back his hand. Flames brushed his fingers as he put his hands in his lap. It was a gentle touch, soft as doeskin.

The fire spoke to him. "You can see me?"

G.J.'s brain seized up. Something hot burst in the center of his head. He leaned forward, gagging on smoke and bile. He placed his hand over his face, never making contact with his lips. Warm liquid oozed through his fingers. He threw his hand out, then shook vomit from it. Like so much sewage. He reached for his face again.

He didn't have a face.

There were two grates over his mouth—one straight forward, one to the right. He traced his fingers backwards. No nose. Plastic eyes. Smooth, rubbery skin. He rubbed down the side of his neck. There was a seam at his collarbone. He picked at it, then pulled his face back. There, he found himself looking inside of a mask. Something round, metallic, and small dropped from it as he shook his sickness out of it.

"You took off your mask," another voice said.

Officer Delta had arrived. The gas station attendant stood up, his knees as flimsy and rubbery as his mask. Rainwater cleaned the face of a man who hadn't dared to show his visage in years. Not in public. He now stood in front of his best friend, scared and naked.

"Did I always have it on?" G.J. asked.

Officer Delta nodded. "Many people wear masks. Yours was just literal."

G.J. shook as heat stroked his face. He turned back to the sad, burning corpse of the strange woman. "I found her. I was out here, just out walking, and…Why did she do this to herself?"

"She was sick. Sometimes, sick people sometimes hurt themselves." Officer Delta spoke slowly, dragging his words. "Perhaps she thought she deserved this."

"That's terrible," G.J. murmured.

Both the police man and the gas station worker stood in silence over the burning corpse. The rain crawled to a slow, ill stop. The fire fell as well. It dissipated into steam, into the fog surrounding their little town. G.J. didn't know what to say. Why wasn't Officer Delta accusing him of her death? Did he really know the short, round man that well? Then again, perhaps it wasn't impossible. Even after knowing him for such a small amount of time, it was clear that Officer Delta had a keen perspective on everyone he knew.

G.J. put his mask back out. "Please don't tell anyone what I look like."

"As long as you don't tell anyone what I look like," Officer Delta chuckled.

"I…you know, I'm going to sound crazy," G.J. confessed. "I swore that just for a second, I heard her speak. Like she was still in that fire. Or was it."

Officer Delta didn't reply at first. He lowered his head, rust-brown helmet slick with moisture. "It's possible. Some people can see souls. Ghosts. Maybe you are one of them."

Reaching down, Officer Delta grabbed the corpse. He didn't bother with gloves or body bags. G.J. watched him in fascination. No one would have been that hands-on with the dead. Well, no one, except for the Medic.

The Medic!

"I'm not from here," G.J. said.

Officer Delta bobbed his head. "I know. One day, you just arrived. There were strange things that dropped you here. Their vans had license plates from—"

"New Mexico!" G.J. clapped his hands together. "That's right! I was a mercenary! A pyro! The Pyro!"

The officer pondered, "Pyrotechnician, or pyromaniac?"

The Pyro shrugged. "Both."

That brought another low snicker from the police officer. "That's what I like about you, Pyro. You are honest. There aren't many people like you."

"Well, I don't know many people who would have understood me so well. Especially with this mask on," the Pyro confessed. He tipped his head, "How can you hear me so clearly? My teammates always struggle to understand what I'm saying."

"Let's say I've had similar problems." The officer shrugged his shoulders. "It only takes a little effort to understand people."

The Pyro put a hand on his head. That certainly was the case. He thought quietly as Officer Delta dragged the burnt corpse away by its ankle. Did he want to go back? Was there anything left to go back to? He remembered an awful pain, something worse than burning. Shame. A greedy old man hovering over his naked face. He felt anger flare in his arms. No. No matter what, he had to stop that man. For his lost teammates. For himself.

Officer Delta's head raised. It seemed massive, his nose long and sharp. "G.J?"

"Sorry, Adam. I'm not feeling well," the Pyro replied. He lowered his shoulders, and then his head. "I don't think I can stay here."

The policeman paused in his stride. He released the ankle of the corpse, then staggered back to meet the Pyro. He stood a few feet back, studying the Pyro's change of behavior. The firebug wondered what the officer was thinking. Was he sad? Angry? Did he know of the plans in his friend's heart? He was a cop, and cops didn't like violence. Well, good ones like him, anyway.

"Are you sure?" the policeman said.

The Pyro nodded. "I think so. I feel so lonely without my friends."

Officer Delta could sympathize. "I know how it is to feel that lonesome. No friends. No wife. If you think they are worth being with, then you should find them."

He extended a hand. The Pyro took it. They shook, pale skin and black gloves slick with rainwater. "You are always free to come back."

It didn't take him long to pack. There was little he wanted. He purchased a few supplies, grabbed some containers for matches. He couldn't find a proper flamethrower. Still, there were axes in town, and a local gun shop did have a flare gun. So, he had a few weapons to take on his journey. No car, though. He found himself chuckling at that. For all of his work filling up cars and washing them, he never had one for himself.

A longer trip, perhaps. But, there were always buses, trains, and cabs.

When he left town, Officer Delta walked him out. They went up quiet hills, past lakes, hospitals, and graveyards. There were rail-thin people wandering in the mist, mourning over moss-covered, crumbling headstones. All so pale and hunched over.

"I didn't know that we had such a large cemetery," the Pyro wondered.

Officer Delta nodded. "Does it scare you?"

"Not really," the Pyro replied. "Nothing really scares me here."

"Well, you're a good man. When folks don't have anything to hide or lose, they're rarely frightened," the officer rambled. "Although, I'm assuming that in your line of work—"

The Pyro shrugged. "I've hurt a lot of people. But, they get back up."

The officer sighed. He seemed dissatisfied with that knowledge. "Just don't harm those that don't deserve it."

"You've got it," the Pyro promised. "Besides, I mostly fight robots now."

Officer Delta put a hand on his hip. "Well, then. Now, I've heard everything."

The officer raised a hand. He pointed out towards a road that spiraled past the cemetery. It seemed to all but disappear in the fog. "Follow that path. Avoid the town directly south of here—it's a bit of a mess. Brahms is a fine, should you want to rest. The cops get a little testy there, though, so make sure to be on your best behavior. You should make it there before sundown."

"I can't thank you enough," the Pyro said. He gave one last wave to his friend. "I'll miss you, Adam."

"I'll miss you too, G.J," the officer replied.

The two men parted ways. In a strange way, the Pyro felt a pang of guilt. He kept looking back, watching for a tall, white figure in the fog. His friend was moving in his separate way, too. Slow, ambling, dragging. He studied the figure disappearing over the edge of the cemetery's hill. For a moment, he felt guilty and uneasy. Was this the correct decision? Maybe he was better suited for this town of strange people.

He shrugged, then continued on his way. There was only one way to find out if what he was doing was right.

/***/

The moon hung full, gargantuan, unrealistically huge. It floated and shimmered in a black sky, hanging just above a row of dilapidated letters. It was clear what they were supposed to spell—Hollywood—but two of the Os were torn to shreds. That didn't seem to both the occupants of a nearby car overlooking the hills. It was rich, red, too expensive for its owners. Again, they didn't worry about its cost. The only thing on the duo's mind was the state of each other's necks and how red they could become.

Eyes watched the hungry pair from snarled bushes. Teenagers. Always teenagers. They made such easy targets. More fragile than an adult, but foolish enough to feel immortal. The brush shook as a dark, massive shadow moved towards the car. Brambles snagged its thick fur. It settled down again, sniffing, the powerful scent of cologne and perfume mixing in the air like a cloud of noxious neurotoxin.

The shadow listened to its prey. The smaller of the two—a perky young girl—was giggling and batting her boyfriend back. "You hound! What if someone's watching us?"

"I didn't think you cared all that much," her boyfriend replied, his voice charming. Not the tone of a young teenager. No cracking or awkward pauses. Completely unbelievable. "Besides. Anyone who's up here just wants to look at that stupid sign. Or to neck. Like us."

The girl pouted. "Hey! Keep your hands at two and ten, buster!"

Her boyfriend sighed, then pulled back. "Sorry. I'll take it slower."

The young lady guided him back. "No. Here, silly." She took his hands, then drew them towards her chest. The shadow watching them groaned as she placed her boyfriend's hands on her body once more. Perhaps there was a time when he would have found her boldness charming. Now, he was closer in age to her father than her boyfriend. He found it very uncomfortable.

And that was why he had to kill them—because they were young, dumb, and randy.

The shadow continued to creep upon the car. Neither teens noticed him approach the vehicle. He steeled himself, then paced behind the vehicle. He walked ungainly, feet and hands resting on the ground. On all fours. He reached out a left hand. It could barely be called that anymore, with the way that fur and nails had erupted from it. Dragging it alongside the car's body, his nails made small squeaks and paint chip.

He reached the back of the car. Slowly, carefully, he set his feet on the bumper. Not the feet of a human. Dog's paws. He clambered over the side, staring with a drooling mouth at the teens. If the car had a hood, then he could have stopped here. But, no. He had to continue. His nails stuck to the leather interior as he crawled into the backseat.

"Did you hear something?" the naïve girl asked.

With a mighty roar, the shadow rocketed upwards. He shook the car with the force of his leap. His fur was jet-black, matted, wet with sweat. His claws dug into the upholstery, ripping stuffing and springs loose. Both teens screamed as he bared his teeth. He howled, a hymn for the full moon, before lunging down at the hapless victims beneath his maw and claws.

Another shout went out. "Cut!"

The massive monster flopped into the back seat. The two teens popped up, laughing and shrieking with delight. They swatted at the creature's monstrous paws. He hit back, making more playful growls. Horseplay was the only way to defuse each other after filming intense scenes. It reassured the actors that no one was going to be hurt, no matter how into their scenes they got.

The car bounced again. A man in a red floral shirt and khaki pants hopped into the back seat next to the monster. "Good doggie. I'm loving the creepy walk. Could you do more with your mouth, though?"

The actor inside the monster threw his mask back. The cool air felt good on his sweaty face and moustache. He stuffed his hands into the werewolf's maw. "Ya see this? I have no control over this. Can't make it go up 'n down. You're gonna need a puppet for that."

"You need to get closer to Bridget. Like this!" The director leapt over the side of the backseat. He made half-hearted attempts at growling as he reached for the young actress.

She slapped him back. "It's Margaret, you ass!"

"I'm not comfortable with that, lad," the actor argued. "This mask's so big, I'm afraid I'm gonna headbutt her."

The director shrugged. "Hey, that's okay! Real blood! It'll make the scene genuine!"

That earned the pushy director another slap from young Margaret. "Jackass."

Now, the other young actor was starting to get frustrated. He yawned, then laid his head back. "How much longer are we going to be out here? I'm getting tired."

"It's barely two in the morning, and you want to go to bed?" The director shook his head. He gave the adult actor a sigh. "Kids these days."

The man in the monster suit exhaled, then cracked his neck. "'m tired too, mate. Been in this bloody costume for fourteen hours. Could use a shower and a snooze."

The director shook his head. "What are you all, union workers? Geez!" He shooed them away. "Fine, then. Let's pack it up. I've got some sinning to do, myself."

The crew disbanded for the night. It was amazing how fast the crew could pack up and go. The budget for this production was shoe-string, and the crew treated it as such. Props and boom mikes were tossed about with hardly a care for their well being. The camera was tucked into a case, then thrown into the back of a pickup. The lead villain removed his own costume. No assistants for him—just a man in a fluffy suit, complete with easily-visible zipper. How they were able to land such a rich car, he didn't know. If he had to guess, it was because the producer owned several lemon dealers.

It was hardly a dignified film, but it was a solid job. For that, the b-rated actor couldn't complain. It was either this schlock or exploitation films. Sure, he could act as intimidating as any hardened thug, but his accent was completely wrong. He could be a stern, strong cop, but too many feared his eye patch. About the only thing his disability and vernacular were suited for was pirate films. Those circumstances were the worst of all. No Red Legs Greaves was he. If he got a role in a pirate movie, it was always prefixed with either "Voodoo" or "Caribbean." He found that trend irritating.

At least he hadn't been hit up to perform in some drunken director's X-rated version of Macbeth.

The actor's drive home was peaceful. Most of the barflies were beginning to crawl away. Even so, traffic was surprisingly tolerable. His apartment was a little hole in the wall. No heat, no central air, not much going for it. Very loud neighbors. Still, he didn't mind it. The cheap door was a barricade against the rest of the world. Not that he didn't like the environment, but sometimes, it was just good to shut people out.

He didn't plan on being up for much longer. Just a shower, then bed. He rubbed arms and forehead, all sticky with his sweat. The hot summer night wasn't going to give any reprieve. If he was lucky, perhaps he'd get four or five hours of sleep tonight. He yawned, then stumbled to his bathroom. It was good that he lived in such a cheap apartment. He didn't have time to enjoy it, anyway.

The actor tossed aside his white undershirt. Shorts and underwear hit the ground simultaneously. That was all he could stand to wear under that hideous werewolf costume. He gave himself a crooked look in the mirror, then opened the drug cabinet. Not that he needed anything in it. He just didn't want to look at himself.

Whatever had happened to his eye, he didn't know. He could hardly fathom it. His fear of his visage made him a rarity in Hollywood—an actor repelled by his own face.

At least the rest of him was pretty damn decent.

The actor took a good fifteen minutes in the shower, just letting the water rain down on him. Sometimes, the only way to beat the heat was to crank the shower even hotter. By the time he would step out, his skin would be chilled by the temperature difference, and he could peacefully sleep. He thought he was going to fall asleep on his feet. That would have made for an embarrassing morning. He'd be less human than prune if that happened. Not to mention what so much water would do to his—

There was a knock.

The actor reached for the shower knob. He twisted it closed. He held his breath, listening for the sound. It happened again. Sloshing out of the tub, he reached for a nearby towel. He gave himself a brisk scrubbing, then threw it around his waist. Who could that be, so late at night? He stepped to the entryway, then peered through the peephole.

Two women were staring back.

They didn't seem intimidating to the actor. Both were small, light, dark-haired. Maybe mother and daughter, based on their similar appearances. He unlocked his door, then pulled it back gingerly. The younger woman was able to maintain eye contact with him. The older was not, much more fixated on something else.

"Mister DeGroot?" the younger lady asked.

"Aye?" the actor replied.

The young woman in purple stood her ground. "We need to talk."

/***/

**Author's Note**

I thought about having the last part ending with Miss Pauling forcing the Demoman out of his apartment by gunpoint, but I thought that was a bit excessive.

I would also guess that someone will want to roundhouse kick me for the Pyro bit. Especially the ones that went, "No way! That's chronologically impossible!" But, I wanted to experiment with the idea. Or, maybe it's presumptive of me to assume that all mute or intelligible video game people would like each other? Who knows. It's possible that they would communicate better with each other, at any rate.

…maybe the name was too obvious.

I'll put jalapeños into the next chapter. Promise. Sometimes, you've gotta take it slow to enjoy what's quick.


	6. Chapter 6

Mister DeGroot was in no mood to talk. It was much too early in the morning, far too late in the evening. He just wanted to go to bed. No matter how pleasant the women at his door seemed, the B-list actor had no patience for them. He tapped his fingers on the door. A yawn escaped him before he could stifle it.

"Can it wait until tomorrow?" Tavish asked. "I've gotta film in the morning."

Both women raised an eyebrow. The older of the two spoke their unified opinion, "Film?"

"Aye. I'm a certified actor, lasses," Tavish replied. He readjusted his posture, shifting from leaning on the door to the wall. "Isn't that why you're here?"

"No. We had absolutely no idea. We just found you in a phone book," the younger woman said.

Now Tavish was confused. "Really? What, have you two been living out in a desert or somethin'?"

Again, he received a strange look from the two women. The elder turned to the younger, then put a hand up to her ear. She asked a hushed question, but Mister DeGroot could still hear it. "What's up with him? Did he bail on yer job?"

The younger shook her head. "No. I—"

"Would you two mind not playin' Chinese whispers in front of me?" Tavish grumbled. "If you plan on keepin' me up all night, the least you can is not cut me out of the conversation."

The younger was quick to smooth over the offense. "Sorry." She paused, reaching a hand upwards to fumble with her glasses. Her words grew jagged as time passed. "Tavish, are you okay? Why didn't you come back? I thought you were…well, I suppose I didn't know, but I couldn't assume well, all things considered."

A confused glance passed over Tavish's face. He parroted back the younger woman's last line. "All things considered? 'M not sure what you are talking 'bout."

The perplexed expression came back to the younger lady's face. "What? Don't you remember?"

Silence was the Scotsman's answer. His brain was void of information. He put two fingers on his temple, trying to tap a memory out. There was just nothing there. To some degree, the Scotsman was used to this happening. Memories weren't as necessary as they used to be. Old pains were important to keep buried. Fleeting joys were quick to be forgotten. The mind only had so much room, no matter how quickly it built new neurons. There were just things that he was going to forget as time went on.

Still, a stinging pain built in his chest. This seemed critical. There were two tiny women with black hair staring at him, just as bewildered as he was. He had no reason to fear them, and yet, he felt apprehension. Who would be so mad as to contact him so late at night, to plead with him for his time? Normal fans? No. Perhaps stalkers.

"Who are you?" Tavish pondered.

The older of the two women spoke up. "Ya probably don't remember me. I'm the Scout's Ma. This here's Miss P. Well, Miss Pauling, but I think Miss P is easier to say. Less stuffy, more cute."

Strangers. Absolute strangers. The actor felt a new bubble of anxiety build in his diaphragm. "'M sorry, but I still don't remember you."

The younger one—Miss Pauling—went pale. Ice cold. She spoke shortly, sternly. "How?"

"'M afraid I don't understand what you mean," Tavish replied.

That answer didn't satisfy the young lady. "How could you possibly…Mister DeGroot, you worked for my employer for six years. You worked alongside me for five. How could you forget?"

Tavish shook his head. He tapped the top of his head again. "Don't be mad, Lass. My mind's not what it used to be. Too much drinking."

"Hey, I like ta get sauced myself, but I remember everything," the older woman interrupted. "Honey, are you for real?"

"Swear on my dad's grave," Tavish replied.

Miss Pauling's gaze snapped upright. She glared straight into Tavish's brain, right through his one good eye. "You remember your father. Okay. What else? How about your mother? How did you lose your eye? What was your job before this—even before me?"

Tavish sucked in a shaky breath of air. "My job? I…Well, my mum's still alive. Should call her soon. Been a while. And my eye…" A nervous chuckle escaped him before he could catch it. "Bloody hell, that can't be right. Somethin' 'bout a wizard?"

"He sounds like he's off his rocker," the mother said.

Miss Pauling disagreed. "No, he's right."

"Even I thought I was making that up," Tavish snickered.

The younger lady's patience was fading fast. She rubbed the corners of her eyes. Something poisonous was on her tongue. It was all she could do to bite it back. Tavish tipped his head, studying the upset stranger's face. He frowned, regretting his laughter. The two of them looked exhausted. Guilt flooded him.

Tavish sighed. "Lasses, I'm sorry. Truly. But I can't—"

"Don't!" Miss Pauling snapped.

Both the older woman and the actor froze. Something raw and inflamed had been exposed to the open air. What had appeared to be a diamond spirit chipped like ice. There was a sharp pain in the younger woman's chest. She concealed it as best as she could. She pulled herself up, then pushed her glasses back. Fears that had plagued her for months were swatted away once more.

She became something not quite as piercing as a rapier. "Don't lie to me, Tavish. Do you truly not remember me? You're not just lying out of fear, are you? I can understand if you are frightened, but you've got to be honest."

Tavish dipped his head. "What would I be afraid of? You?"

The final blow was dealt. The angry witch seething in the young woman's heart burned away. Open, painful aching was left in its passing. It was all the woman could do to conceal her fears and frustrations. So, this was it. He still had his strength, but no mastery over it. That was gone. What was left was muddled and tired, making a living with the only traits he had left—those that were purely physical and innate.

"What happened to you?" Miss Pauling murmured.

The mother sighed. Their scheme had become more convoluted. She gave the actor another glance, studying his face. No, it had to be him. Even in the fleeting pictures she had seen of the man and the brief meals that they had shared, she wouldn't have forgotten a face like his. That love of sulfur and explosions had disappeared, the raging, fiery spirit tamed, but his shell was still the same.

She put an arm around the younger lady. "Look. We're all tired. It's been long days for all of us. Let's give it a rest."

"Couldn't agree with you more," Tavish nodded.

Miss Pauling bobbed her head, although it remained fallen. She glanced at the other woman's purse. The mother agreed, then shuffled through it. She produced a book of matches and a peppermint candy. Handing both items over to the actor, the mother forced a smile. "Just in case you change your mind. We'll be around for a bit, yet. Right, Miss P?"

"We need to sleep," Miss Pauling answered. "Regroup, too. This complicates things."

The older woman took the younger by the shoulders. "Catch ya later, then."

Tavish waved them off. He waited until they descended the stair well before he pulled himself inside his apartment. He flipped the items in his hand. There was a hotel logo and telephone number on the back side. Not a particularly good hotel, either. Something cheap, but not hourly.

He put the matchbox on the counter, then tossed the peppermint into the garbage. He could still use the matches. It was a shame that those women were so confused, but there was little he could do to help them. He had his own life. He couldn't drop everything just for a pair of doe eyes. Perhaps the duo would wake up tomorrow and figure out that they had made a mistake.

So, there couldn't be that many black Scottish Cyclopes by the name of Tavish DeGroot in the world. There had to be at least one other in Hollywood.

The actor stumbled to his bathroom once more. He finished his nightly rituals. The clock on the bathroom wall was past three before he was finished. Great. Another long day with no sleep. He pushed the mirror aside once again, placing his toothbrush, paste, and floss inside. That was just the way fate was sometimes. Complicated.

Slowly, the mirror turned back. He swatted it aside once more, hunting for aspirin. He felt like his frontal lobes were on fire. He took two capsules, then threw them into his mouth. He drank down a glass of water. It didn't quench the burning in the front of his head. Tavish sighed. It would be yet another hour before he could fall asleep.

He pushed the mirror shut. For the first time in ages, he looked at himself. Not just the glance he'd give himself while shaving. A true, long reflection. His face was older than he remembered. His cheeks were hollow, his eyebrows heavier. His mouth sat in an unflattering frown. He reached for his eye patch, then pulled that back. The eyelid behind it was atrophied. Pink tissue sat behind it, the last remnants of what had been a healthy eye.

"Lost it to a wizard," he muttered. "Maybe I am drunk."

As he touched skin just below his missing eye, something electric ran through him. He crashed onto the floor, right on his coccyx. He cursed himself. Maybe he had touched something too sensitive. He rolled onto his knees as another surge hit him. He knew what this feeling was. A drunkard never forgot. He pulled himself to the toilet, then hovered over the bowl. An old sensation passed over him. He let it go easily, voiding his mind as he emptied the contents of his stomach.

Bad medicine. That's what it had to be.

As one used to being ill, Tavish looked over his sick. He expected to see undigested pills or food. There was some of that, certainly. Stranger yet was the small pellet floating in the middle. He had never seen anything like it. There was no way he would have voluntarily eaten that. It seemed toxic. He fished it out and threw it into the sink. He kicked the toilet's handle. Boiling water went over the pellet and his hands, scrubbing the last of the filth away as the toilet carried the rest into the sewage system.

Tavish picked the cleaned silver ball up. It wasn't much larger than a pearl. He brought it up to his one good eye, checking it over for engraving. Sure enough, there was the signature of a megalomaniac. 07180125. GRAY. Just like on that strange capacitor the Pyro had found on the battlefield that spring not too long ago.

Tavish jumped backwards. The Pyro! Of course, he had a Pyro! There were all kinds of mercenaries, weren't there? All sorts of soldiers. Like the Soldier! And spies—the Spy! His Sniper, his Medic, his Engineer—all came back to him, one by one. The fat man and the skinny brat. He slapped himself on the cheek. Not just anyone's skinny brat. That older woman's kid! And the other gal with her—

"Ah, cripes!" the Demoman swore. "Miss Pauling, I—"

Any guilt he harbored vanished. He had to make it up to those women! They had come all the way here, begged for his help, and he'd been useless! He bolted into his closet. Flinging his bath towel aside, he finally put on a decent pair of clothing. Not pajamas, either. As soon as he was fit to be seen, he ran to his kitchen. He snatched his wallet, his keys, and the matchbox off his countertop.

A dozen thoughts bombarded him as he put his hand on his doorknob. His mother was going to kill him for forgetting to call her. His clan was going to shame him for not immediately jumping into a fight. He was going to lose another career. Hell, he'd lost most of them. He was out of practice, out of shape, out of his league. He was going to fail, and when he did, he wouldn't ever get an opportunity this nice again.

He left his doubts and dreams behind. Hollywood could keep both of them.

/***/

There were doves everywhere.

The big man thought it was a trick his mind was playing on him. Wild doves? In New York City? Possible, but unlikely. If anything, it was just a flock of inbred pigeons. No matter what they were, they were every place he visited. Perhaps they were just sticking by tourist traps, but he felt anxious. Up Park Avenue, across Ninety-Seventh Street, down Fifth, across two parks. Everywhere he turned, there they were. Picking at trashcans and stealing popcorn.

He wished that he could just ignore them. They certainly were distracting from his sightseeing. It was hard to overlook them, particularly when they kept following him. Not just hovering from building to building. Waddling behind him. Picking at his clothes. One even had the audacity to land on his shoulders. He had tried shooing them away, but it was futile. They were stubborn birds.

Tomorrow, their antics wouldn't matter. He'd go back home, back to work, and be far away.

The thought of returning back to his job frustrated the large man. More name calling. More suspicious glances. No one could trust a Russian. Besides the chatty grandmother at that opera, these animals were the closest companionship he'd had in over a year. Before that…well, he had no way of knowing. One day, perhaps, but not likely today. He feared knowing who he was. All he could do was pray that he wasn't a Soviet sleeper agent, ready to spring into action at the slightest trigger.

His stomach rumbled. The big man grunted, then reached for his billfold. He needed to save enough cash to take a bus back home, perhaps train fare. It didn't leave much for supper. Something cheap would have to do. He was just about to close his wallet as a bird landed on his hand. He froze. The large man had heard tales of mugging, but he hadn't expected some dove to be a perpetrator.

"What do you want?" the big man asked the bird.

It cooed at him, then took off. The dove's flock followed him upright. The pack fluttered south, then dove underground. Straight into the subway system. The big man lifted his eyebrow. Stranger and stranger. He shrugged, then followed them. The line was heading north, away from richer streets. Perhaps he could find something reasonable to eat there.

Time flew as he traveled towards the Bronx. He exited his car, only to be greeted by the same persistent flock. He felt his skin crawl. They couldn't have taken the train, could they? What sort of strange birds were they? The flock took off once more, bolting straight up the nearest stairwell, swatting incoming humans as they fled. The large man shook his head.

They were too strange not to pursue.

Like a violent white wind, they whipped around. The entire flock dove towards a beaten bar. The large man watched in wonder as they settled into nooks and crevices around the building. The front of it was wooden, aged and beaten. Warm, dim light burned within its core. There was cheerful, deep laughing from inside. Not the kind of building a young man visited, looking for a pretty thing to take home. No, something for the old and weathered. A smile crept onto the big man's face. It seemed like a pleasant enough place to rest his feet.

The interior of the bar was scarlet, amber, and emerald green. Pleather seats were well worn, but not torn. A few tired men sat in booths, talking amongst themselves and smoking. Wooden stools were open next to the bar. The big man shrugged, then took a seat. They were sturdy enough to bear his mass. Even as big as he was, the Russian wondered if larger had sat in his spot before.

"Guten abend!" a cheerful bartender greeted him. "What can I get you?"

The Russian felt heat blast through his face. He found himself laughing. There, standing before him, was a man older than he was in black, floral-trimmed lederhosen. As if that weren't enough, he had one of those peculiar hats the actors from the opera were wearing—a little cap with a corded band and a white feather. One errant strand of hair was curled beneath it. It was completely joyful and undignified.

"Sorry. Was not polite of me," the big man apologized.

"It happens more than you think," the bartender laughed. "I don't fill it out as well as the frauleins."

The customer shrugged. "You do what you must for your job, da?"

The bartender sighed. "Ah, so true. What would you like?"

"Whatever tonight's special is. Trying to eat cheap," the big man replied.

"Ah! That must be difficult!" the bartender teased. He smirked, then reached for a glass stein. "Tell you what, then. This is on the house. My gift, ja?"

The large man found himself flushed again. "It is okay. I can pay."

"Nichts da! I have been trying to get back into brewing. You just try this, and tell me what you think," the bartender protested.

If there was one thing the big man had learned to do, it was not to reject a gift twice. So few people were willing to cut him slack. Perhaps it was just a ploy to get him drunk, and then to later pay more for booze, but the big man accepted it all the same. He needed a break from the constant onslaught of toil and frustration. Alcohol certainly wasn't the best solution for his woes, but it didn't hurt.

It was the best beer he had drank in a long time. Warm, thick, straight to the point. He felt its potency within minutes. He kept quiet, watching the staff work around him and the customers chat away. This was pleasant, just to wait. For a moment, he forgot about what had been ailing him. Maybe he didn't have many more memories to lose, but he was willing to let go of the pain, his strange travels, and even the peculiar pigeons sitting outside the bar.

The big man found himself staring at the bartender's hat, white feathers matching the plumage of the birds outside. Of the prop he had falsely seen. Pale tufts all around him, leading him to peace of mind.

Perhaps it was serendipity.

/***/

**Author's Note**

Ack! It happened again! I ran out of room.

Oh, well. Can't tax the readers too much. I try to cap myself around 3,000 words per chapter.

…well, I think you know where this is going.


	7. Chapter 7

Dell knew it was going to be a rough day when his boss stormed into the repair shop.

Bob's face was as red and bulbous as a tomato. He looked like he was going to burst at any moment. Many things pissed off his corpulent employer, but only one offense brought that sort of anger out of him. Someone owed him money, and they weren't paying up. Dell was panicked for half a second. Did he forget to pay for one of his lunches?

His boss was quick to clarify who had offended him. "There's a darned vagrant sleeping in my parking lot!"

Dell nodded, but pursed his thick lips. "Where?"

"In his damn car," Bob huffed. "You know, Dell, the nerve of some people! Don't we run a fairly priced, well kept establishment? Who does he think he is, sleeping on my property without paying me money?"

"Ah, come on." Dell rocked back on his stool. "He's not takin' up a bed. Probably pulled in after we closed up shop."

Bob snorted once more. "He's tresspassin', Dell! I'll call the cops on him before I let him leave without paying his dues!"

Twenty-five dollars. That was the going rate at Bob's truck stop. At least, for one bed. Dell whistled low, managing to stifle a laugh. How petty was he that he was willing to throw a man in jail over some fee that small? Heck, court costs would be more than that.

Dell hopped off his seat. "Show me where he is. Least we can do is talk to the man."

With a small rumble, Bob turned towards the door. He swatted it aside with one thick hand. Dell followed his trail. The duo walked outside, past the rising scent of fresh bacon and eggs crackling in the kitchen. Drool collected in the corners of Dell's mouth. Maybe after he got this settled out, he'd pay up for breakfast. Usually, all he needed was coffee. Today felt different.

The mechanic's rotund boss led him to the only other car in the parking lot besides his and Bob's. Dell recalled seeing it before, but hadn't thought much of it. It was a run-down Buick. Its exterior was brown, rusted towards the bottom. A poor man's car. The plates on the vehicle were from Wyoming—Crook County. Not too far away, really. Not a journey that required a rest.

Bob growled at the back end of the car. "There he is."

A man was lying in the back seat of his vehicle, fingers curled and head resting on a beaten jacket. Dirty hair had escaped the hold of its fixative. It surrounded the man's head in clumped waves, a dark crown. Draw across his face was a thick slash. He should have had such a cut sewn shut. Yet, it was left exposed to the elements, raw and vulnerable.

The mechanic put his left hand on the rear driver side door. "Poor fella."

"Poor?" Bob snorted. "Probably some kind of criminal. I should be calling the cops."

Dell shook his head. "Sixty dollars in court costs for dodgin' a twenty-five dollar fine. That's assumin' you'd win. It'll be a waste of time to put him through the ringer."

Bob's round face contracted again. He folded his arms, resting his elbows on his protruding gut. "You've got a better plan?"

"Just give me a little bit," Dell replied. He smiled, perfect teeth even and bright. "I've got a way with people."

His boss gave a low grunt. With one last snort and a hock, Bob returned to the front building. As long as the old bull got his gold, he was happy. Dell sighed, then turned back to the rust-colored car. The weary traveler hadn't moved one inch. His long face was relaxed, wrinkles smoothed. Couldn't have been much older than Dell himself. Perhaps even about the same age. The mechanic wondered what would drive himself to such a predicament. Poverty? Exhaustion? Illness?

Dell tapped twice on the door with his right knuckle. The man inside didn't respond. The mechanic brought a hand to his side. If the strange visitor hadn't been awakened by his boss's ranting and raving, then Dell wasn't sure what would wake him up. He knocked one more time, gentle and steady. It wasn't as if he could leave this spot without cash in hand.

The traveler's eyelids squeezed. He pawed at his face, wincing as he grazed his scar. There was a thick layer of gunk on his narrow eyes. He rolled onto his stomach, then pushed himself onto his elbows. Fingers reached for the window controls.

"What's the matter, wakin' a—" the traveler started, then stopped.

His long jaw went slack. Words halted behind lupine teeth. Memories burned in his brain. His eyes beaded with water, but he didn't blink. He stared with confusion and elation, blue irises lancing straight through Dell's brain. Maybe his boss had been right. Maybe the man sleeping in the car had been a madman after all.

Still, it was hardly congenial to wake him up and run away. "Sorry to disturb ya. See, my boss? He's pitchin' a fit 'bout you—"

"Dell," the traveler's voice cracked.

Cold shudders caught the Engineer's arms. He felt as if he was being held by a ghost. Something about the way that the traveler had said his name caused pain his in stomach. Not like indigestion or injury. Nostalgia. A burning sensation was building in the corners of his eyes. His left palm was slick, his right hand dead as ever.

Dell asked, "How'd ya know my name?"

The traveler's face flushed. He glanced down the mechanic's overalls, then over towards the truck stop. No, his name wasn't anywhere in sight. It wasn't a common name that he pulled out of a hat, either. It was deliberate knowledge. No trickster was the traveler. And yet, it struck Dell as an odd reaction. Why would someone be flustered about knowing another person's name?

"Phone book," the traveler tried to lie.

Dell didn't buy it. "Uh huh."

The stranger opened his mouth to speak. The first thing that escaped him was a low rumble. He closed it again, then pressed his hand to his stomach. Hunger. Dell drew a long breath through his nose. It was hardly right to interrogate a man before breakfast. He tapped on the car's door twice, then beckoned for the traveler to follow him. "C'mon. Let's get ya breakfast. Maybe if ya buy that, my boss will settle down."

"Boss?" the traveler questioned. "You work here?"

His queries were getting stranger. Never-the-less, Dell played along. "Yeah. Woke up in Rapid City 'bout a year ago. Couldn't remember much of anythin'. Just—well, I had to have been a mechanic or somethin' before. Couldn't prove it, though. Bob 'n Diane were the only ones willing to take a risk on me. So, I've been workin' for them." He paused for a moment, then smiled. "I think you'll like Diane. She's a little hard, but she's soft once ya get to know her. Ya know what I mean?"

The stranger nodded. "Yeah. Quite."

"'N what about you?" Dell asked. He pushed the truck stop's door open, the chimes jingling as he continued to talk. "Try to catch a late-night peek at Mount Rushmore?"

"I…" The traveler halted.

Dell grimaced. He knew the man was concocting another lie. He'd seen that look a thousand times before. "Tell me straight, partner."

Now, the stranger's face screwed up. It was as if he was having his own nostalgia pains. He smiled, then lowered his head. "You'll think I'm mad. But…I've gotta get back to New Mexico."

"You're right. Absolutely suicidal," Dell agreed. He offered a booth to the stranger. The man nodded, then took a seat. Dell continued his ranting as he sat down, Bob's beady eyes giving him a dirty glare behind his back. "The things I've heard out of there? Makes my head hurt. Somethin' 'bout a maniac snatchin' up land? Mister, I tell you—if the United States Army can't drive him out, then I don't know what will. Certainly not one man in his beat-up car."

The traveler massaged the bridge of his nose. For a moment, the man seemed naked to Dell. He couldn't put his finger on it. It was like he was missing something personal, iconic. A hat. Sunglasses. Something. Not that his face wasn't enough to look at. Even the long slash and fine stubble felt natural. There was just something missing to the lean stranger.

Dell sighed, then took his words back. "I'm sorry, Mister. Look. You've got a long journey ahead, and you've barely started. Heck, you're even going in the wrong direction."

"Got off at the wrong exit," the traveler snickered. "Just figured it'd be best to wait until daylight to move again."

"Wise choice." Dell picked up a menu, then pushed it towards the stranger's face. "Now, c'mon. Order up."

The mechanic leaned back as the traveler flipped the menu over. It wasn't much—just one laminated sheet of paper. Dell looked towards Bob and Diane, wondering what they were thinking of the situation. Bob's face was still red-hot, but he was managing not to glare fiery holes of death into the traveler's skin. Diane was more amused than irritated. Her once-perfectly styled hair had curled in the heat of the kitchen. She sat with arms folded, watching the duo interact with great interest.

The truck-stop chef leaned over to her husband and giggled. "He's talkin' more with that one man than any girl I've seen him with at Joe's bar."

"Makes you wonder," Bob grunted.

Both the traveler and the mechanic's ears went red. Dell could hardly believe what he was hearing. Diane could be such a blabbermouth. Still, he didn't know why the stranger would be so flabbergasted. The man had completely hid his face behind the laminated menu, trying his best not to make eye-contact with the mechanic. He didn't know whether that action was rude or pleasant.

The stranger managed to stammer out an order. "Coffee and toast, please."

Dell bobbed his head. "Sounds good. I'll have the same, Diane." He paused, then grinned. "You know what? Throw in some eggs and bacon. I'll pick up the extra."

"Sure thing," Diane smirked.

Now, the traveler was even more flustered. He ran a hand through his greasy hair. "Kind of ya."

"Just make sure to buy gas before you go," Dell offered. "We've got showers too. Might want to take one."

The stranger lifted an arm, then sniffed himself. "Cor. I'm not that ripe, am I?"

"Nah. But, ya look…well, yer hair…" Dell reached across the table. He grabbed a sticky tuft, then flopped it around. It could hardly move. The stranger lowered his gaze, embarrassed by his physical appearance. There was a short, suppressed snort from behind them. Bob just couldn't keep his opinions corked up.

"I'll do that, then," the traveler smiled.

When breakfast came, their chatter died down. Dell kept sitting with the stranger. At least, he knew Bob wouldn't jump him for the contents of his wallet at that rate. The traveler kept staring at Dell's right hand as he ate. Strange, considering that Dell was left-handed. He would stop chewing, shake his head, then continue eating. Dell found it a little irritating, but also interesting. Why was the man focusing on that, of all things?

Dell waited for the man to finish sipping his coffee before he asked, "Why do you keep looking at my hand, stranger?"

A fork clattered from the traveler's hand. He hadn't been expecting that question. He coughed into his left hand, then tried to speak. "I—I had a mate, yeah?"

'A mate' meant a lot to a foreigner like the traveler. Dell lifted an eyebrow. "When you say, 'mate'—"

"Good friend," the stranger interjected. "A really, really good friend." He sank into the booth, his long spine rolling against the pleather cushions. " He…he had this fake hand, yeah? Not sure what happened to the other one. But, I liked it, even if it was a bit weird at first."

Dell looked at his dead hand. "A fake hand, huh?"

The traveler shrunk back. "Didn't touch on a sore subject, did I?"

"No. It's just—" Dell couldn't believe what he was blabbing to this perfect stranger. He lifted his right hand, then flicked his fingers. "See, it moves. But I can't feel a darn thing in it. I figure, long as it keeps working, I don't have ta see a doctor 'bout it."

Now, the stranger was silent. He gave the hand a glance, then grunted. The fingers on his right hand drummed the booth's table. He had a curious glint to his eyes. Wanting to investigate, but remaining still. When nobody spoke out, he lifted his hand. Slowly, carefully, he moved towards Dell's dead hand. Rough fingertips brushed the surface of the numb hand. He pressed against Dell's digits, then flipped it over and looked at his fingernails.

"D'ya cut 'em?" the traveler asked. "Bruise 'em?"

Dell drew his head back. "No. I haven't. Not as long—"

His sentence trailed off, echoing in his head. Not since last year. Not since the incident. Why would his fingernails have stopped growing? All living tissue grew and shed, had feeling. Had he been that dense? Why hadn't he noticed something so simple? And here he was, supposed to be the analytical, observant kind.

Dell pulled his hand back. He dug under his nails, wondering if they would bleed. His skin changed color, just a little, but not much. It still squashed like normal skin. He kept bearing down pressure. Bob and Diane drew away, appalled at what he was doing. The traveler sat still. Shocked. Disturbed. Frightened, but not moving.

The mechanic popped his fingernail off.

There wasn't any blood. No tissue, no scarlet flesh, no trace of humanity. Lying beneath his pointer finger was cold, lifeless steel. He pulled against the skin of his finger, wriggling the front tip of a metallic digit out of the hole. It wasn't a hand of his design. No, his had been more robust, thicker. This was build to imitate a human hand. A deception from—

Searing pain blinded Dell. He glanced up, looking at the stranger sitting across from him. It was the face of a man obscured and buried by greasy, swirling agony. He saw the whole of the stranger, then a black memory. A languid shadow on the back of a massive machine. Mere garbage to a madman.

Hot, wet pain erupted in his sinuses. He gagged as warm blood ran down the back of his throat. Something was stuck back there, a scorching ball of melting metal. Dell pushed away from the table. His coffee mug rolled across his left hand and into his side of the booth. Even that scalding heat was nothing compared to the anguish in his head.

He scrambled from the table. His legs could hardly bear the burden of his body. There was one hand around his left arm, then another at his right. Bob carried his human side, the traveler his damaged hand. Dell bubbled a plea, but blood ran from his mouth. Something worse was threatening to come up from inside him.

"Get him to the can!" Bob snarled.

The world moved around him in still frames. The bathroom door. Blue. Toilet. One. Head down. Jaw open. Cold seat. Out. Out. Out. He made wretched noises, but only heard half of them. His face was roasting. He burned up all at once, his mind disappearing in a black snap.

A can of soda revived him.

The traveler had it pressed against his forehead. Dell nudged it aside as he came to. The toilet was empty beneath him. His illness had been flushed away. He rocked back, finding both Bob and Diane hovering just behind him. He tried smiling, but he knew his mouth was still foul. Diane passed him a clot of napkins, pulling away just as he took them. He wiped himself clean.

"Need a toothbrush?" Diane offered.

Dell nodded. "Thank ya kindly." His throat sounded like he was filled with sand.

Bob was eerily quiet. "It's on the house."

The sick mechanic rose to his knees. He turned to find the long face of an old friend. The traveler was trying to keep his stoic calm, but the corners of his lips were failing to keep his expression. He bent down. Squeezing his eyes shut, he reached for Dell's left hand. He dropped a small, metallic pearl in it. The mechanic studied the strange device, but not for long. He had something else that he wanted to see. He raised his mechanical hand, then patted at the traveler's chin. Screwed up wrinkles and piercing eyes were faltering.

"Mundy," the Engineer said.

The Sniper nodded. "Yeah, mate?"

The Engineer could hardly speak. "What happened to us?"

He knew it was something terrible. He had the faintest memories of tortures, nights of abuse, lone shells exploding and echoing in the vast deserts of the Southwest. He remembered screaming and dying—repeatedly—of pains much worse than this. He was not the same man he had been. No, that fighter had been behind lock and key, emaciated to the brink of its death. Now he was awake, free, staring at the pale face of another prisoner, one with his own terrible scars.

The Sniper said nothing. He reached for the Engineer's shoulders. The tall man leaned over him, arched over a broken spirit. The Engineer could hardly react. Wild memories were flooding back, nights of drinking and horseplay and just being happy. There was a reason he'd tolerated past pains so well. There had been such a mild salve to heal them. He sank into the Sniper's grasp, that same warmth returning again.

They were fighters, true men, and they did not cry. All the same, the left corners of their shirt collars became hot and damp.

/***/

Author's Note

I've been…struggling. To be honest, I don't know what the point of continuing this story is after the August 2013 TF2 comic. It's a bit jossed.

Ah, well. At least I wrote this part.


End file.
